The Three of Them
by allthingsdecent
Summary: So here's what happens when Cuddy shows up to Wilson's funeral. :
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: We interrupt your regularly scheduled fluff for this super-emo story about Wilson's funeral.**

I see this fic as self-contained. I know many (and by "many," I mean "all") of you won't. I just became obsessed with this idea of House breaking down while delivering Wilson's eulogy and having neither Wilson nor Cuddy there to console him.  
*Cries*

I might continue with it (hence, the incomplete status). I'm taking a bit of a wait-and-see approach with the show. And don't worry. I still promise to either fix (likely) or expand upon the show's finale to make it more Huddy friendly.

She briefly considered not going to the funeral.

After all, House was sure to be front and center. In a way—and this thought gave her a slight chuckle that dissolved into a kind of ineffable sadness—House and Wilson were each other's true significant other. Had been for well over a decade.

So House would be there, of course, absorbing the loss like a grieving spouse.

But then she thought: Gregory House has driven you from your home, your job, your community. He is not going to drive you from one of your best friend's funerals.

She hadn't spoken to Wilson much since she'd moved to New York, gotten the job at Scarsdale General. But he never forgot Rachel's birthday (or hers) and he called her occasionally—not to talk about all that had transpired (some things were just too heavy for phone calls) but to check in, say hi, let her know that he still cared.

So she arranged for Rachel to stay with the nanny and made the familiar drive back to Princeton.

She cried, a lot, on the drive, mostly because of Wilson, but also because of what she had lost—and of all the memories that were flooding back so quickly.

She got to the synagogue a little later than she'd hoped.

She sat in the back. She immediately saw House, in the front row, flanked by his team—current and past. There was Thirteen, Foreman, both Chase and Cameron. Plus, Taub and a little Chinese boy—upon closer look, it was possibly a girl—and a raven-haired beauty, who was also, no doubt, one of his new fellows. (House collected beautiful young female doctors the way some people collected stamps.)

What was strange was that House didn't notice her. In the past, he had a kind of homing device when it came to her. But he was too dazed and out-of-it to be aware. All his senses were deadened.

The rabbi came up, gave a sweet, heartfelt eulogy—Wilson volunteered at the temple, mentored fatherless boys, ran karaoke night for Hadassah. Of course he did.

And then the rabbi said, "Dr. Gregory House would like to say a few words."

Cuddy braced herself a bit.

She watched House stagger onto the stage and she was really able to look at him for the first time.

He looked like shit. He had dark circles under his eyes and his face was drawn and his clothing hung off him, like he was the one who had been ill, not Wilson.

"James Wilson was my best friend," he said, his voice quavering. "Actually, he was my only friend. But I didn't need any others. I just needed the one. . . .He was the best man I knew. The best man any of us knew."

House took a deep breath.

"But here's the thing about most good men. They're boring. They're sanctimonious, full of themselves, not nearly as pure of heart as they pretend to be. But Wilson"—and he smiled a bit—"was anything but boring. He kept me on my toes. He could dish it out as well as he could take it. He could tell a dirty joke, he could hold his drink, he couldn't stand hypocrisy. Absolutely hated it. But the bastard cared. He cared so much. Not because he was expecting some sort of cosmic reward at the end of all this. He wasn't even sure he believed in God—sorry rabbi. The thing is, he cared because that's just who he was. He believed in people. Against all odds, against all proof, he believed in their intrinsic goodness."

He smiled, as if still marveling over his friend's good nature.

"The reason his patients loved him so much was because he felt their pain. He would absorb all the pain in the world if he could. And in the end. . ." House closed his eyes, swallowed a bit. "I wanted to absorb his pain. I would've done anything to absorb his pain."

House inhaled, looked searchingly around the room, as if the answer was somehow in the pews, waiting for him.

"He, of all people, didn't deserve to die like this. But he wasn't self-pitying. He never asked why. He spit in cancer's eye. He took it like a man. It was a privilege to know James Wilson, to be his best friend. . . The greatest privilege of my life. . . " His shoulders shook. He was starting to cry. "I didn't deserve a friend like him. . .I don't know how the hell I got so lucky. But I'm so very. . ." He stopped, tried to collect himself, but it was clear that he couldn't speak anymore.

And Cuddy had this instant, crazy flash that Wilson would go up to the pulpit and rescue him. But of course, Wilson couldn't help House anymore.

_He had two people_, Cuddy thought. _Wilson and me. And now we're both gone. _

And just as she was having this thought, Cameron—of all people—got up onto the pulpit and put her arm around House and led him back to the pew.

#####

Cuddy felt out of sorts. The reception was at Wilson's condo, which was haunted enough. She'd spent a lot of time at that place, mostly with House, mostly having dinner or just hanging out, once for a terrible Super Bowl party. (Over time, she and Wilson had gotten over the whole condo subterfuge. In fact, it became a running joke between them: "Karma's a bitch," she would say when a neighbor with a yappy dog moved in next door. "Dodged a bullet," she would joke, when his condo fees went through the roof.)

But the thing was, House wasn't the only one without his people. She was missing hers, too. Of course, she had a fondness for Chase, Taub, Foreman—even Cameron (well, a _little_ fondness, at least). But they weren't her lifelines. At an event like this she would cling to Wilson, lean on him. He had this intuitive way of always knowing what she needed—whether it was a sincere hug or a groaner of a joke. As for House, well, depending on the status of their relationship, she would either be flirting with him, glaring at him, pretending to ignore him, or spending the whole night tucked away in some corner with him, as he whispered inappropriate things in her ear.

"Funerals make me horny," he had said to her once. They were at a viewing for one of the hospital's pulmonologists, who had died suddenly, of a massive heart attack.

"Everything makes you horny," she had responded.

"True," he said. "But funerals remind me that life is short and I should be having sex with you as often as possible."

She had laughed.

Now she stood in the middle of the room, nursing a glass of wine, making that horrible funeral small talk you made with people, "He was a good man.. . .He left us too soon. . .He was so brave. . ." and she suddenly felt like she couldn't breathe.

The guest bathroom was being used. She knew that there was a bigger one in the master bedroom. She could go there, collect herself, hide away— just for a few minutes.

So she snuck away, stealthily opened the door to Wilson's room.

It looked disturbingly neat—fussed over, like it had been recently cleaned. The bed was perfectly made—you could bounce a coin on it. The shelves were dusted. It seemed sterile, somehow, as if Wilson's life, his very spirit, had already been scrubbed away.

She looked, briefly, at his dresser. He had some framed pictures on it. One of him and Amber—she was doing the bunny ears behind his head and he was playfully wrestling her hands away. One of a little bald boy, obviously a cancer patient, who was looking up at Wilson adoringly. And another photo—oh damn him—of her, Wilson and House, all dressed to the nines, the night of the PPTH Monte Carlo gala. She and Wilson were smiling, raising champagne glasses cheerfully. House was chomping on a cigar and arching an eyebrow in mock provocation at the camera.

She looked at the picture for a long time, sighed. They'd had so much fun that night. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Fuck you, cancer," she said, outloud. (And fuck you, House, she thought, but didn't say.)

The bathroom door was closed, and a little stuck. She opened it with a hard push, stepped inside, and was stunned to see a man—sitting fully clothed in a dark suit, with a dark tie dangling loosely from his neck—in the bathtub, holding a bottle of whisky.

House.

"Sorry," she said. "I didn't know you were here."

He didn't look at her.

"I thought I heard your voice," he said softly, staring straight ahead. "But then I thought I was imaging it."

"It was really me," she said.

"I guess so."

"I . . . couldn't stay away."

House nodded, finally looked at her. His eyes were moist.

"I'm glad," he said.

He seemed so subdued, she wondered if he was on Klonopin, or something even stronger.

"Do you need to pee?" he said, suddenly remembering they were in a bathroom. "Because I could leave. . ."

He climbed out of the bathtub.

She gave a sad laugh.

"No. . .I was just looking to escape, to be honest."

"Me too," he sighed.

_Of all the bathrooms in all the bedrooms in all the world_, she thought. . .

He sat on edge of the toilet bowl, held the bottle toward her.

"Drink?" he said.

A stiff drink sounded pretty damn good right now.

She took the bottle from him, drank. It was strong. It burned her throat. She handed it back to him.

He took an enormous swig. He seemed lost in thought again.

"Was it. . .bad?" she said finally. A part of her didn't want to know. But a part of her had to know.

"Yes," he said evenly.

"Pain?" she asked, feeling a little sick.

"Yes."

"Were you there for him?" She didn't mean for it to sound like an accusation. But that's how it came out.

"Every step of the way," he said, looking at her. "I learn from my mistakes. . ."

His words echoed meaningfully in the small room.

"I should. . .get back to the reception. . ."

She started to leave the bathroom. Then stopped.

"House, are you going to be okay?" she whispered.

"I'll be fine," he said, unconvincingly.

She turned to him.

"I'm serious," she said. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Don't," he said, looking down at the floor.

She didn't understand what that meant.

"I know how much you loved him," she said. "And how much he loved you."

"Don't," he repeated, almost pleading with her.

"House, I'm sorry. . .I'm so so sorry."

"Don't," he said.

And he broke down crying.

And now she understood: Don't say kind things. Don't ask me about my feelings. Don't act like you care—because I can't take it, not from anyone, but least of all from you.

"House," she said. Instinctively, she went to him.

He put his arms around her waist, buried his face in her stomach. His shoulders were shaking and his tears were making her blouse wet. He was sobbing now.

She'd never seen House cry like this. Never.

She let him hug her, let him cry, even put her hand on his hair, smoothed it. She could pretend she didn't love him. But that was a lie. A lie she had been successfully telling herself for the past two years. But in this moment, with the rawness of both their emotions, the truth came out: She couldn't stand seeing him in so much pain.

"Shhhh," she kept saying. "Shhhh."

Just then, the bathroom door burst open. It was Cameron.

She stared, in shock, at the tableaux of House weeping and Cuddy consoling him.

"I . . .heard somebody crying," she said sheepishly.

"We're fine," Cuddy said.

House didn't say anything. Just closed his eyes and kept his face pressed against Cuddy's blouse.

"I'll. . . leave you two alone," Cameron said, hesitating.

And she turned from the bathroom and left.

#####


	2. Can't Help It

**Looks like I'm continuing with this story after all…**

After Cameron left the bathroom, House hastily wiped his eyes and Cuddy backed away from him.

Her blouse was so wet, it stuck to her skin.

There was an awkward silence.

In a way, the two of them, being alone together in this small space, sharing in their grief—it couldn't have felt more natural.

But, in other ways—more significant ways—there was nothing natural about it at all. They hadn't spoken in over two years. The last time Cuddy had laid eyes on House was in a courtroom where he had plead guilty to reckless endangerment and destruction of (her) property. When the judge sentenced House to 18 months, Cuddy had muttered under her breath "good"—and left the courthouse without looking back at him.

And that was it.

You had to hit rock bottom to recover from an addiction, people often said. The car crash was her rock bottom. For years, she had ignored her friends, her family, even her own rational inner voice. Because she had craved him, just as he had craved her.

"_I love you. . .I wish I didn't. . .But I can't help it."_

But the car crash had ended all that. When she left Princeton Plainsboro, she did it to finally leave him behind for good. It was symbolic, definitive. Maybe it was running away, but it was running away for the right reasons.

And now here they were. Reunited by the one thing that could possibly lead to this moment, the one thing they still had in common. Even in death, Wilson was trying to bring them together.

She so wanted to feel anger toward him. She wanted to hate him. Instead, she felt an overwhelming need to comfort him—to wrap her arms around him, to protect him from the world—the exact same way she felt when Rachel skinned her knee in the playground. Why was this man so deeply embedded in her blood?

"You're going to be okay, House," she said finally.

"So are you," he said.

It was a sweet thing to say, actually. An acknowledgment that Wilson had been important to her, too.

"I know," she said. And she blinked back a tear and smiled sadly.

"I'll see you back out there?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "In a minute."

She wasn't sure if he was ever going to emerge from the bathroom, but 30 minutes later, he did.

She immediately noticed that he looked different—no longer docile, but restless. He was still carrying the bottle of whiskey—it was almost completely drained and his eyes were wild. He stalked the room, looking like an animal searching for his prey.

He found it in the unsuspecting form of Dr. Jerry Meyers, a soft-spoken radiologist—a man in a sweater vest—who had the temerity to be chuckling over a joke with a friend.

"What the hell is so fucking funny, Meyers?" House growled.

The room grew instantly quiet, wary.

"House," Meyers said, keeping his voice calm. "That was a beautiful eulogy you gave earlier."

"I asked you a question," House said, looming over him. "What the hell is so damn funny?"

"Nothing," Meyers said. "Just a little inside joke. Nothing significant."

"A good man is dead. Do you really think this is the appropriate setting to be sharing little inside jokes?" House spat out the words.

Chase, Cameron, and Foreman, who had all been huddled in a corner together, took note of the situation, and began making their way toward House.

"I don't think Dr. Wilson would want this to be a totally solemn occasion," Meyers said.

The presumption of that remark, innocent as it may have been, was enough to take House over the edge. (Of course, he was looking for a reason to be taken over the edge.)

"Fuck you!" he screamed. "Who the hell are you? Where the hell do you get of? You have no idea what Wilson wanted! You have no right to speculate about what Wilson wanted!"

"I'm sorry, you're right. . ." Meyers said, backing away.

"For the record, Wilson is worth ten of you—a hundred of you, you little cretin! I should wipe that fucking imbecilic smile off your insipid face."

House was so drunk, he had to keep leaning on his cane for support. He seemed in actual danger of toppling over.

Meyers stared at him, his mouth agape.

"I. . .I . . ." he stammered.

"House," Foreman said, grabbing House's arm, leading him away. "Let's go. . ."

"Sorry," Cameron mouthed to Meyers, following them.

Cuddy watched the whole scene with a mixture of pity and contempt. There was House, again, needing to be propped up by others. There was House, _again_, being out of control—forever the neediest guy in the room.

_He'll never be alone because his neediness is like a vacuum, it sucks people in._

Chase, Cameron, and Foreman took House outside. Cuddy watched them struggle with him a bit, shook her head, sighed. Maybe it was time for her to go, too.

She got her purse, made one last stop in the bathroom, said goodnight to a few of her friends—hugged Taub and Thirteen—and left.

When she got in the garage, she noticed a little scene in front of a car—House's car presumably, although not the same one from the crash.

"Fuck you, I can drive myself," House was saying.

"No," Foreman was saying. "You clearly can't."

He was trying to get House's keys without actually hurting him.

"I don't need you," House was saying. "I don't need anyone. . ."

He tried to open the door, but he put the wrong key in. He fumbled for the right one.

"What's going on?" Cuddy said, approaching them.

"He thinks he's going to drive himself home," Chase said, shaking his head.

She looked at House—he was hunched over, concentrating very hard on putting the key in the lock.

"House, give me the keys," Cuddy said firmly, holding out her hand.

House stopped fiddling with the door.

"Like you care," he muttered.

Cameron, Chase, and Foreman looked at Cuddy expectantly.

"I care," Cuddy said. "I don't want you to hurt yourself. . . Or anyone else."

The last part was said purposefully. Everyone knew what she meant.

House clenched his jaw a bit. It was something of a standoff.

Cuddy held out her hand, waiting.

He looked at her, slightly pathetic. Puppy dog eyes.

"Fine," he said finally.

And he took the keys and dropped them into Cuddy's palm.

Cuddy immediately handed the keys to Foreman.

"Make sure he gets home okay," she said, and turned to leave.

"Wait!" House yelled after her. "I thought you were going to drive me."

"It's not on the way to my hotel, House," she said.

_Just keep walking, Lisa_.

"I'll take you," Cameron volunteered.

"I knew you didn't care," House said. "Just go ahead. Just keep acting like I don't exist."

Cuddy kept walking. She got to her car.

"C'mon House," Cameron was saying gently. "Let me take you hope."

"Cuddy!" House screamed, frantic now. "Don't leave me!"

She stopped. Closed her eyes.

Fuck. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. . ._

She turned back around.

"Alright," she said, striding up to them, grabbing the keys from Cameron's hand. "I'll take you."

Everyone stared at her.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Chase asked.

"I can handle him," Cuddy said.

#####

He passed out, almost instantly, in her car. She had to climb across him and strap him into the seatbelt herself.

When they got to his apartment, she shook him, hard.

"House!" she yelled.

His eyes fluttered open.

"Wha— "

"Can you walk?"

He blinked.

"Yeah. . ." he said, slowly trying to get his wits about him.

He took a step, almost fell out of the car. Cuddy grabbed him, put an arm around him—he was heavy, but between the two of them, they were able to get him upstairs and into his apartment.

She more or less hurled him onto the bed.

He instantly curled up into a ball, started falling back to sleep.

He was still wearing his suit and dress shoes.

Cuddy rolled her eyes a bit, yanked off his shoes, then loosened his tie enough to pull it over his head, took off his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt.

He was just conscious enough to facilitate her work. He rolled over so she could pull of his jacket and kicked his legs to help her remove his pants. He was in a t-shirt and boxers now. It was the best she could do. She pulled up the covers, turned out the lights, started to leave.

He grabbed her hand, with more strength than she would've thought possible.

"You're going to be gone when I wake up, aren't you?" he said. "I'm never going to see you again."

When Rachel hurt herself, Cuddy felt like she could move mountains to get to her. Everything else in the world dimmed. Her only job was to save her.

"No," she said. "I'll sleep on the couch."


	3. PostMortem

She tried to get comfortable on the leather couch, but it was difficult—and not just because the fabric was rough. The whole apartment was haunted to her. When they were dating, she used to lie on this same couch, with her eyes closed, listening to House play the piano.

"Mmmm," she would murmur. "I could listen to you play all night."

"I'd rather play you all night," he would say, grinning, popping up from the bench.

"No!" she would demand petulantly. "Play!" And he would obey.

One night, she put on a slinky red dress, climbed on top of the piano, and did a slow striptease for him, a la Michele Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys.

"I'm the luckiest guy alive," he said that night.

Now, Cuddy sighed, closed her eyes, shifted her weight on the couch. The pillow smelled like him, the throw blanket smelled like him. And of course, the tee-shirt she was wearing smelled like him, because it was his. (What was she supposed to do? Sleep in her funeral dress? This little detour was totally unexpected. All her clothing was at the hotel.)

Finally, fitfully she fell asleep.

She had a horrible dream. It was about Wilson. He didn't really have cancer, he had something else, something simple to cure. Somehow, she was the only one who knew this. He didn't need chemo or radiation. He didn't need to die. One shot of hydrocortisone and he'd be all better. And yet she told no one. Did nothing. She didn't pick up the phone, she didn't call his doctors. She let him die.

She woke up in a cold sweat, her heart racing. She shuddered, got a glass of water, tried to sleep again.

When she woke for the second time, sunlight was streaming through the curtains. She looked at her iPhone. 7:45.

She stretched, did some deep bends, some sun salutations. She looked around the apartment. It seemed different, somehow. Then she noticed all these strange tacky souvenirs. A horrible sea shell picture frame, an ugly, touristy photograph of the Hollywood sign, a snowglobe with a palm tree and a hula dancer inside, a little woven basket filled with potpourri.

And it hit her, all at once—Dominika had lived here.

She was gone now, clearly. She hadn't even come to the funeral. And maybe Wilson had gotten sick so shortly after she left that House hadn't had a chance to remove her crap.

At first the thought of Dominika, his little Russian rent-a-whore, living in this apartment filled her with rage.

But then she thought, "How terribly lonely he must've been if he took any comfort in her. How horribly sad."  
She sighed, started straightening the place up. Put away books and CDs, swept the floor, got a giant Hefty bag and began throwing away candy wrappers and take-out containers and other garbage. Was it presumptuous to throw away the ugly kitsch? House hated stuff like that. She decided to leave it as it was.

She went into the kitchen, put up a pot of coffee, began doing the dishes, when she heard his voice.

"I thought I dreamt you," House said.

"I'm real," she said.

"I might still be dreaming, because you're not wearing pants," he joked.

Cuddy looked down. Shit. The tee-shirt.

"Get me some pants, will you?" she said.

"If I must," he said.

He hobbled into his bedroom and came back out with a pair of flannel boxers. They were familiar—she used to wear them to sleep all of the time. They'd have to do.

"I made coffee," she said, pulling the boxers on.

He poured himself a mug, sat down.

"Join me?"

"No, I'm going to finish the dishes and head out," she said.

She could feel his eyes burning her back, as she continued to do the dishes.

"Cuddy, I want to thank you for last night," he said finally. "I don't exactly remember what happened, but I'm pretty sure taking me home wasn't your idea . . ."

"No," she said. "You were rather . . . insistent."

"I just needed . . .I don't know. I just needed to be with somebody who understood."

Understood what? His love for Wilson? His grief? Or simply somebody who understood him?

"Your car is still at Wilson's," she said. "I can give you a ride to the hospital."

"Why?" House said, taking a sip of coffee.

"Because it's after 10 am. You should get to the office. I'm sure somebody there can take you to your car after work," she said.

"I mean, why would I go to the hospital?" he said.

There was something strange in the tone of his voice.

"Because you work there?" she said.

"No, actually I don't."

She stopped drying the dish. Held it.

"What do you mean, House?"

"I quit."

"_What?_ When?"

"A couple of days before Wilson died . . . I just didn't see any point in going back."

Cuddy put the dish down, looked at him.

"House, it's your job. It's what you do."

"But what's left for me there?"

"Your patients. Your team. Your puzzles. The things that sustain you."

He looked back at her.

"I don't care about that stuff anymore," he said.

"House, you're grieving," she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee and sitting across from him. "Just call them and say that you need some time off. Nothing permanent. No one should make significant life choices at a time like this."

"Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital is the last place on earth I ever want to set foot in again," he said.

"But why?"

"Because it's haunted," he said.

"I don't think Wilson would want you to quit."

House got a slightly musing look on his face.

"You know, when I first got out of prison, I used to see you everywhere," he said softly.

And she was beginning to get it. Not just haunted by Wilson. Haunted by them both.

"My office, your office, the clinic, the men's bathroom on the second floor—" He raised an eyebrow a bit.

She ignored him.

"But you know who got me through it? Wilson. I broke his wrist in four places, did you know that? He had to have surgery. But he forgave me. He was an idiot. No matter what I did, he always forgave me."

"And the point is, I didn't?" Cuddy said.

"The point is, loving someone unconditionally is stupid," House said.

"Wilson wasn't stupid."

"He was when it came to me. . ." House said, gratefully.

"I loved you plenty," she said bitterly. "And trust me, I'm plenty stupid."

He looked at his hands.

"Did you get my letters?"

_Here we go._

"Yes," she said. "I got your letters."

"Did you read them?"

"Yes."

"It's customary, you know, to write back."

"I'm not sure what is, in fact, customary when your psychotic ex-boyfriend writes you 50 letters."

"86," he muttered. "86 letters. You could've written back _once_."

"House, I was angry. I'm _still _angry."

"I know. . .but what was the plan? To never speak to me again?"

"Frankly, yes."

They stared at each other.

"So good old Wilson has does it again," House said, smiling a bit. "Even in death, he brings us together."

"We're not together."

"You're at my kitchen table. _I'm_ at my kitchen table. We are, quite literally, together."

"House, what's your plan? If not Princeton Plainsboro, then what?"

"I don't have a plan."

"So. . . what? Just stay here in your apartment? Pickle yourself with alcohol? Maybe find another male-order whore? . . . Nice potpourri basket, by the way."

House pursed his lips.

"Dominika was. . .a distraction," he said, defensively. "51 year old crippled ex cons aren't exactly considered dream dates these days, you know."

"You could've found yourself a real girlfriend and you know it, House."

"Already tried that," House said. "Didn't work out."

Cuddy sighed, annoyed.

"I'm serious. What are you going to do? Are you going to apply for a job elsewhere? Continue to practice medicine? Because I could . . . write you a recommendation. . ."

Even as she said the words, they sounded ridiculous.

_Dear hiring committee:_

_Please hire my pill-popping lunatic ex boyfriend who was recently imprisoned for driving a car through my house. . .You won't regret it! _

_Sincerely,_

_A Crazy Lady _

"I don't know what I'm going to do, Cuddy," House said.

"Why do you care?"

"I wish I knew," she said, shaking her head.

There was a long pause.

"What do you _want_ to do, House?" she asked.

"I think for the time being I just want to mourn my best friend and do absolutely nothing. Is that so wrong? Is that okay with you?"

"No, it's not okay with me."

"Well, you're not my boss anymore," he said, defiantly. "At work, or anywhere else."

She stood up, picked up her empty coffee mug and put it in the dishwasher.

"I'm going to go," she said. "There's no point in us arguing."

"No!" he said. The slightest touch of last night's desperation had crept back into his voice. "Don't go yet. Stay. Let's talk some more. I'm sorry. I'm saying the wrong things. . .I don't mean to. . ."

But she had to leave. She shouldn't have come over in the first place, spent the night. It was an aberration, a regression. It didn't reflect the true status of their relationship.

"Can I use the bathroom?" she said. "I want to change."

He looked down at the table, gestured with a slight cock of his head that she could.

She went to the bathroom, gargled some mouthwash, combed her hair, put on a little makeup. She emerged 10 minutes later looking remarkably put together.

"I used your mouthwash," she said to him.

"Not my toothbrush?" he said, with a wan smile.

"House, I really am worried about you," she said.

"Don't be. I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."

The words sounded hollow and false to both of them.

"Alright then . ." she said, holding out her hand, somewhat awkwardly, for a shake. "Good luck."

He looked at her hand for a long time. Finally, reluctantly, he shook it.

"Can I call you?" he asked.

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Will you call me then?"

"I don't know, House. We'll see."

"Well, I'd like it if you did."

She nodded.

"Goodbye, House."

This time he didn't say the words: _Don't. Don't. Please don't_. But the look on his face spoke volumes. She couldn't look at him anymore. She had to leave.

She drove back to the hotel, changed into jeans and a tee-shirt, checked out and started the nearly two-hour drive back to Scarsdale.

Her mind kept flashing to that damn dream. She could've saved Wilson, but she didn't. But, of course, the dream wasn't about Wilson at all. It was about House.

He was alone in that apartment. No job, no Wilson, no puzzles. It would be suicide by wasting away.

She realized that her hands were shaking.

She turned the car around, drove back to his place, knocked loudly on the door.

No answer.

"House," she said. "It's me."

He came to the door. He was still wearing the t-shirt and boxers from last night and his breath already smelled of alcohol.

"Did you forget something?" he said.

"No," she said. "Not really."

"Then what?"

"Pack a suitcase House. I'm taking you home with me."


	4. Roommates

Roommates

House peered into the hallway, as if searching for a camera crew.

"Am I being Punk'd?" he asked.

"No, I'm dead serious," Cuddy said.

"You want me to come _live_ you?"

"Not live with me. Just stay with me, for a few weeks. Until you . . . get your equilibrium again."

"But why?"

Cuddy measured whether or not she should tell him the truth.

"Because I'm afraid that if I leave you alone, you're going to kill yourself," she said finally. "Maybe not today, maybe not even quickly—but that eventually, you'll end up dead."

House folded his arms.

"So this is out of pity?"

"I'd describe it more as concern. . ."

"You know, I'm not some delicate flower who needs to be tended to."

"Aren't you?"

"I'm just saying that—"

"Look, House. This is a one time offer. I've asked you. I've eased my conscience. You can take it or leave it."

House sighed, scratched his head.

"What's the weather like in Scarsdale this time of year?" he said.

#####

She had acted on such impulse, it wasn't until they were on the highway, heading to Scarsdale, that Cuddy realized how insane her proposal actually was.

She overcompensated by laying out firm ground rules (that she was literally making up on the fly).

"There's nothing romantic about this arrangement," she said. "You'll stay in the guestroom. You can have meals with us, but that's it—no socializing outside of the house. No interfering with my personal life, no snooping around my bedroom, no inappropriate remarks, absolutely no come-ons whatsoever—"

"You act like this was my idea," House said, defensively.

"I'm just telling you how it's going to be," Cuddy said, gripping the steering wheel more tightly.

"The real question is, how are mom and baby sis going to react to the news that your degenerate ex boyfriend is staying at your home?" he asked.

One of the many loose ends that she hadn't considered.

"They can't know!" she said, rather quickly.

"Oh yeah, because 5-year-olds are so good at keeping secrets," House said.

"We'll. . .figure something out."

House looked out the window.

"How is she?" he asked. He was talking about Rachel.

"She's amazing," Cuddy said, not able to keep herself from smiling. "You won't believe how smart she is. . .it scares me sometimes. The other day, she asked me if it was possible that her dreams were real and if real life was just a dream."

"A philosopher," House said, approvingly.

"Apparently so."

House opened the glove compartment, then closed it, for no apparent reason.

"Does she ever ask about me?" he asked, trying to make his voice sound casual.

"No," Cuddy said.

"Do you think she . . . remembers me?"

"Honestly, House. I don't know. Two years is nearly a lifetime ago for her."

"I know," House said. He hesitated. "Does she know that I'm the one who . . ." But he couldn't quite finish the sentence.

Cuddy glanced at him.

"Are you crazy?" she said. "You think I was going to break my daughter's heart?"

There was a silence.

"Thank you," House said, quietly.

"I didn't do it for you."

#####

Cuddy decided to drop House off at her place first before she picked up Rachel from dayschool. That way she could prep Rachel for his unexpected appearance.

House looked around the sun-filled brick Colonial.

"Nice digs," he said.

"Yeah," Cuddy said. "We like it."

She showed him around—the kitchen, Rachel's room, her office. (She strategically neglected to show him her bedroom.)

"Here's where you can sleep," she said. It was a nice guest room, with a queen-sized bed with an assortment of useless throw pillows on it, a TV, a nightstand and chest.

"It has cable, you'll be thrilled to know," she said. "And the whole house is wired for the internet." She pointed to a closed door down the hall. "That bathroom is for you."

House threw his duffel bag on the bed.

"I may never leave," he joked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

She smiled at him.

"I'm going to get Rachel. Just unpack, make yourself at home—_ish_. And we'll be back in half an hour."

House nodded. He looked tense—and she wasn't sure if it was the prospect of seeing Rachel, or just the general unreality of the situation that was weighing on him.

"I'll try not to break anything while you're gone," he said.

#####

She wasn't lying when she told House that Rachel never asked about him.

Cuddy and House had already been broken up for three months when the car crash occurred and—although matters had been slightly confused by the late-night hospital vigil after House's self-surgery, the fleeting promise of a renewed friendship—Rachel had already begun adjusting to life without him.

After the crash, Cuddy knew things were a bit of a blur for her daughter—there had been lots of activity, lots of tears, murmured voices, extended stays with Aunt Julia, and suddenly, a new house, a new city to adjust to. House was quickly forgotten. (Or, at least, that's what Cuddy convinced herself. She never dwelled on the real possibility that Rachel simply sensed that her mother didn't want to hear House's name.)

Now, she strapped Rachel into her car seat and cautiously broached the subject.

"Rach, do you remember my friend House?" she said, eyeing her through the rear view mirror.

"Uh huh," Rachel said.

"Would you like to see him again?"

"Uh huh," Rachel said. She had been fiddling with an origami bird that she'd made today in class. She put it down.

"I'm glad," Cuddy said. "Because I have a bit of a surprise for you: He's at the house right now. He's going to stay with us for a . . . little while."

Rachel gave a thoughtful look.

"But I thought Howse made you sad," she said.

"Sometimes friends make us sad, Rach," Cuddy said, trying not to get choked up. "But that doesn't mean we stop loving them."

This seemed to satisfy her.

When they got home, Cuddy tried to take off Rachel's jacket in the vestibule, but she squirmed away and went charging into the house—bolting straight to the guest bedroom where House was standing in the exact same spot where Cuddy had left him.

"Howse!" Rachel said, leaping into his arms.

House held her close, hugged her for longer than Cuddy had ever seen him hug anyone before.

When they parted, his eyes were moist.

"Hey kiddo," he said. "How ya been?"

#####

She made spaghetti for dinner, because it was simple—and because both House and Rachel liked it.

Rachel's presence was a welcome relief, for everyone.

There was nothing like the yammering, cheerful company of a child to relieve the heavy burden of death.

Rachel was so excited to tell House about her new school, her new friends, the two tiny dogs who lived next door who had matching red sweaters, the mailman who gave them biscuits, the boy with the skateboard and the funny hair who zoomed down the block, her favorite teacher who smelled like cinnamon—she could have gone on all night.

But Cuddy had business to take care of.

"Rach, there's a favor I need to ask you. You see, Nana Cuddy and Aunt Julia can't know that House is staying here."

Rachel was dangling a long strand of spaghetti from her mouth.

"Why?" she asked, slurping it up.

_Because if they knew he was staying here, they'd have me committed._

"Because it's a secret," Cuddy said.

"Why?"

"Because sometimes not everybody understands my friendship with House the way you do . . ."

"Why?"

Cuddy gave House one of those "a little help here" looks.

"Because if Nana and Julia know I'm here they're going to make me leave," House said.

"Oh," Rachel said, getting it. As always, she and House had a secret understanding. "Normally, I'm not very good at keeping secrets," she said thoughtfully. "But I will do my best to keep this one."

She was being serious, not trying to be adorably precocious, so both Cuddy and House suppressed smiles.

"Thanks, Rach," House said.

######

She thought House was going to be very in-her-face for the next few days, but almost the opposite was true. He kept to himself mostly, locked in his room. She had to coax him out, to eat dinner with them, or watch something on TV.

She began to wonder if she was really helping him at all.

Was wasting away in her house any better than wasting away in his apartment?

No, she was definitely doing the right thing. At least here, she could make sure he ate. At least here, there was sunlight, the occasional smile, some human interaction—and Rachel.

Thank God for Rachel.

He played with her quite a bit. House was a great companion for a kid because he took unironic pleasure in the same things they did—dinosaurs and explosions and things that were gross—and was quick with sound effects and cartoon voices.

One day, House and Rachel were playing a made-up game called "Intergalactic Tea Time"—it involved creating mini explosions in tea cups with Alka Selzers and orange soda— when out of the blue, Rachel said to House: "Is Uncle Wilson really dead?"

"Yeah," House said, swallowing a bit.

"Was he your best friend?"

"Yeah," House said.

"I wish he wasn't dead," Rachel said.

"Me too," House said.

And they want back to playing.

Once, she heard him crying softly in his room and she stood outside his door for a second, badly wanting to console him but understanding that he needed to grieve on his own.

After about a week, he started fixing things around the house.

He built a lazy susan in her cabinet, so she can have access to all her spices on the ground level. (He had seen her climb onto a step ladder to get some sugar.)

He rewired the downstairs entertainment system, so the stereo, TV, and DVD player could all be controlled from one remote control.

She came home one day to find that he had put a dead bolt on the door.

"I didn't think it was secure enough," he said, with a shrug.

One night, she got home late from work—Rachel was having a sleepover party at a friend's—and he was in his room on the bed, looking at a book of photos.

She sat down next to him.

It was an album she had made when Rachel received a working Fisher Price camera for her third birthday. Most of the photos were of Cuddy and House.

"Where did you find that?" Cuddy said.

"At the bottom of a box in your office," House said.

"I told you no snooping!" Cuddy scolded.

"Actually, you said no snooping around your bedroom," he said.

Leave it to House to have an accurate mental transcript of every conversation they'd ever had.

"I'm surprised you kept it, to be honest," House said. "I didn't think you'd ever want to look at a picture of me again."

"What part of, at the bottom of a box, in my office didn't you understand?" she said, only half-joking.

"But you packed it," he said.

"Yeah," she sighed. "I suppose I did."

She peered over his shoulder. The pictures were at strange angles, some blurry, with distorted P.O.V.

"Our own little Diane Arbus," House said.

"Remember when she took 500 pictures of her goldfish?" Cuddy said.

"I noticed you didn't pack _that_ photo album," House said.

There was one picture of House, in extreme close-up, looking brooding and—Cuddy thought—very handsome.

"I love that picture of you," she said. (She didn't mean to say it outloud—it had just slipped out.)

"My head looks enormous," House protested.

"Then she captured your essence," Cuddy cracked.

"Ha," House said.

He flipped the page.

There was a photo, a candid one—Rachel was taking so many pictures at that time, they had begun to ignore her—of House and Cuddy looking at each other.

It was impossible to look at this photo and not see that the two people in it were deeply in love (and lust).

House lingered over the photo for a long time.

"It wasn't all bad, was it?" he said softly.

"No," Cuddy said. "It wasn't all bad at all."

(To be continued. . . )


	5. Good Behavior

And then, awkwardly enough, Cuddy had a date.

His name was Daniel Blum and he was an environmental attorney who lived in Brooklyn. The date had been set up by a mutual friend, weeks before Wilson had died, long before Cuddy found herself with her unexpected, unhinged, unshaven new roomie.

She considered canceling the date, with the excuse that things were a little "crazy" right now.

But what really was so crazy? It had been nearly 2 weeks since House had moved in and they were actually settling into a pretty comfortable rhythm—sometimes they had dinner together, sometimes they didn't. Sometimes, House played with Rachel, sometimes they all watched TV on the couch (Rachel and House were both addicted this inane show called _Wipeout—_that was, as far as Cuddy could tell, just a bunch of morons being swatted by giant foam hammers and falling into bodies of water).

Mostly, House stayed in his room reading or took long rides on the motorcycle she had rented for him (he had to get around _somehow_—he wasn't exactly built for long-distance walks).

And there was nothing romantic going on between them whatsoever. She had seen to that. If anything, House was being so uncharacteristically polite and respectful—no lewd comments, no inappropriate stares—she actually began to wonder if he still wanted her at all.

So why _couldn't _she date?

After the car crash, Cuddy had been so broken, so emotionally scarred, she didn't date for a whole year. Since then, there had been a few guys, even one relationship that lasted four months. But her heart just wasn't in it.

Was it because a small part of her still loved House? Was it because she no longer trusted her own romantic judgment? Was it because she still partly blamed herself for all that had transpired? Yes, yes, and yes.

It was time to move forward. Maybe Daniel Blum, environmental attorney, was a good first step.

But that didn't mean she was going to tell House about it. No need to rub it in his face.

So she vaguely told him she was "going out to dinner" and left it at that.

"I can watch Mini Sophocles, if you want," he offered.

Rachel, of course, would've liked nothing more.

"That's okay," Cuddy said. "She's going to spend the night with my neighbor Nancy."

(She'd be damned if she was going to let House take care of her daughter when she barely trusted him to take care of himself. )

Daniel was picking her up at 8 and taking her to a swanky new supper club that had just opened on the Upper East Side.

So she dropped Rachel off at Nancy's, came home, got ready for her date.

She emerged from her room, dressed in a form-fitting black dress and red heels, smelling of House's favorite perfume, Soir du Lune. That was her first mistake.

House was at the kitchen table eating ice cream that he had, by some miracle, actually put in a bowl (more proof that he was on his best behavior.)

"Whoa," he said when he saw her. His mouth hung open a bit, the spoon dangling from his lips.

Then he said, with some certainty: "You're not going out with the girls."

Busted.

"No. . .it's a date," she admitted, reluctantly.

"I didn't know you were seeing anyone," he said, keeping his voice even.

"I'm not. It's a first date, actually—a lawyer," Cuddy said. "His name is Daniel Blum"

She braced herself for the sarcastic comment about having met him on "" or how first dates were her specialty, it was the _second_ dates that were her real challenge—but it never came.

"Lucky guy," was all he said.

And he went back to eating his Rocky Road.

#####

She got home that night after midnight.

The house was dark, quiet.

She took off her heels, slid toward her bedroom.

"How was it?"

She turned on a light.

"Jesus, House. You scared me."

He was still sitting at the kitchen table, although the ice cream had now been replaced by a glass of scotch.

"Sorry. Just doing my vampire routine."

When they dated, she used to teasingly call him a vampire, because he loved to sit in the dark and think. ("Don't forget. I also love to bite your neck and make you scream," he had noted.)

"Date was . . .just okay," she admitted.

"Ugly?" House asked, hopefully.

"No. Kinda handsome."

"A real jerk then?"

"No, the exact opposite. Very nice. Very attentive. Asked me lots of questions, listened extremely well. He was like a perfect first date. I don't know what my problem is. "

"I do," House said.

_Oh, this ought to be good_.

"You do, huh?" she said.

He hesitated.

"Forget it."

"Don't hold back now. It's not in your nature."

"You only _think_ you like sensitive, evolved guys," he said. "But you actually like chest-pounding he-men."

_Like you?_ she thought, but didn't say.

"And this theory is based on. . .what?" she said.

"Years of field study," he said confidently.

"Right," she said.

Even before they dated, she had been like some sort of science project to him. It was as unnerving as it had been flattering.

House leaned back in his chair a bit, squinted at her.

"So did sensitive Daniel Blum at least muster up the nerve to kiss you goodnight? Or does his vagina prohibit such behavior on a first date?"

"No kiss," Cuddy said.

House shook his head in dismay.

"What a waste of that dress," he said.

######

If the comment about the dress wasn't a strong enough indication that House still wanted her, Cuddy got her confirmation a few nights later.

She had gotten up to go the bathroom in the middle of the night and realized that she had no toilet paper—on the roll or under the sink.

So she tiptoed into the hallway, toward the linen closet and . . . bumped right smack into House.

She was mortified. She was dressed in a skimpy nightgown that barely skimmed her hips and was almost entirely see-through. It had never occurred to her to put on a robe. It was 3 a.m.

"Sorry," House said. For his part, he was wearing a white t-shirt and striped blue pajama bottoms.

He began to look at the floor—as if allowing her some modesty—but then seemed to change his mind (or perhaps he just couldn't help himself) and he brazenly stared at her.

"Getting toilet paper," she explained, sheepishly, pointing to the linen closet.

"Gotta pee," he said, pointing to the bathroom.

His eyes were drinking her in—and she thought he managed to look _hurt,_ somehow, as though her body was some sort of prize she was cruelly withholding from him.

She had forgotten about this—or more accurately, hadn't allowed herself to remember this: How much he had always wanted her; how much his desire spurred on her own; how sexy she felt when he looked at her like that.

Her face was hot.

She wanted his hands all over her. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted so many things.

Instead she swallowed, stepped toward the linen closet.

"Well, goodnight House," she said.

He continued to stare, resting his head lightly against the hallway wall.

"Goodnight Cuddy," he sighed.


	6. Secrets

It was a Wednesday night. Cuddy was on the phone with her sister Julia, Rachel was on the couch watching TV and sucking on a bright red ring-pop that House had bought for her, House was in his room doing. . .whatever it is that he did.

"How's Rach?" Julia was saying.

"She's good. She's watching Toy Story 3 for the fortieth time."

"Let me say hi."

Cuddy handed her daughter the phone.

"Aunt Julia wants to say hi."

Cuddy went into the kitchen and started emptying the dishwasher, as she listened to her daughter's end of the conversation.

"Good," she heard Rachel say.

Then, "Mama makes me fast forward over that part"—she was talking about the part where the toys are trapped in the incinerator. Then a "good," again as Rachel continued to suck on her candy ring.

"Mama made macaroni and cheese," Rachel was saying. "And we went to the playground. And House bought me a cherry ring!"

_Oh shit._

Cuddy froze and looked at her daughter, who had immediately realized her mistake. Her little face went white and she kind of flinched a bit—looking something like a puppy who was about to get rapped by a newspaper.

She dropped the phone.

Cuddy ran, picked it up, smoothed Rachel's hair.

"It's okay, baby," she mouthed to her.

"Rach?" Julia was saying. "What's that you just said about House?"

"Hey, Jules. It's me. . . yeah, Rachel's favorite part of the movie just came on so she handed the phone back to me."

"Why did she just say that House bought her a candy ring?" Julia said. There was an edge to her voice.

"What?" Cuddy said, trying to keep her own voice casual. "I'm sure she didn't say that. She got a new doll house, maybe she was talking about that."

"Did her _doll house_ buy her a candy ring?"

"What? Don't be ridiculous . . . She's just very excited about her new doll house. You must've misheard. Listen Jules. I gotta go, okay? I've got all these budget reports to review for tomorrow."

"Okay," Julia said cautiously. "Love you, sis."

"Love you, too."

When she hung up, Rachel immediately began crying.

"I told the secret! I told the secret!" she wailed.

"Honey, it's okay. It wasn't fair for mama to ask you to keep that secret. That was mama's fault, not yours."

"Now Aunt Julia and Nana Cuddy are going to make House leave," she moaned.

She was inconsolable.

"No, they're not," Cuddy said. "I told Aunt Julia that she misheard you and she believed me. Everything is going to be fine."

Having heard the commotion, House came out of his room, scratching his head.

"What's the matter, shorty?" he said to Rachel. "Did mom steal your ring pop? Cause I told her, you get your own ring pop. This one is for Rachel."

Still sniffling, Rachel held out her hand, to show House that she still had her ring.

He smiled a bit.

"Then why the waterworks?"

"I told the secret!" she said, her little bottom lip quivering. "I said I wouldn't tell it, but I did."

"The _secret_ secret?" House said, glancing at Cuddy.

Cuddy nodded.

"Oh. . ."

"It's okay. I was just telling Rachel it wasn't her fault."

"Definitely not your fault. Well, except for the part where you told the secret. That obviously _was_ your fault. . ."

Cuddy shot him a look.

"But nobody's mad," he said quickly.

"Now you're going to go away again!" Rachel cried. "Just like last time."

"No, I'm not," House said, looking at Cuddy. "Am I?"

"I told Aunt Julia it was all just a big misunderstanding and she believed me."

She turned to House.

"I explained that Rachel just got a new dollhouse."

"It's times like this when my last name being a noun really comes in handy," House said. Then he pondered it for a second. "Of course now Rachel has to perpetuate the lie that she has a new dollhouse. . .Unless . . .this is so crazy it just might work. She actually _does _get a new dollhouse!"

Rachel stopped crying for a second and looked at him.

"Really?" she said.

"Totally. Your mom will buy it for you tomorrow. Right Cuddy? She doesn't want to turn you into some sort of professional liar or something."

Cuddy shook her head, laughed.

"Right," she said.

"Yay!" Rachel said, completely appeased.

"Yay!" House said, flopping on the couch next to her. "Oooh awesome. We're about to get to the cool part with the incinerator."

#######

Three hours later, Cuddy was lying in bed reading and everyone else was asleep, as far as she could tell, when the doorbell rang.

It was 11 pm.

Who could it be? Maybe a neighbor who had locked themselves out? Or a kid playing a prank?

She was actually kind of glad House had put that deadbolt on the door.

She put on a robe and slippers, padded to the door, peered through the peephole.

Julia.

She opened the door.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Julia strode in with purpose, looking like a cop on one of those TV crime shows.

"Here's here, isn't he?" she said.

"Are you out of your mind?" Cuddy said.

"I know he's here Lisa. I saw the motorcycle parked out front."

"Keep your voice down, Rachel's asleep," Cuddy said.

"Where is he?" Julia hissed.

"Did you just drive two hours to accuse me of harboring House?"

"Frankly, yes."

"He's not here," Cuddy lied.

"Don't lie to me, Lis," Julia said.

"It's none of your business."

"Actually, it is my business. Because you're an addict and you're having a relapse."

"So what if he is here," Cuddy said. "It's my life. I get to do what I want with it."

"What? Are you guys . . .back together?" She spat out the words as though they were poison in her mouth.

"No," Cuddy said. She had a fleeting mental image of the hallway the other night, seeing House. Later, she had masturbated to the thought of him, writhing under the sheet, thinking of his long tongue, his strong hands, his wonderful cock. . .

"It's nothing like that," she said quickly.

"Then what is it like, Lis. Tell me, I'm dying to know."

"His best friend died."

"I know. Wilson. I was very sad about it. I sent a donation to Doctors Without Borders."

"He's a little lost."

"Not your problem."

"I was worried about him."

"You should be worried about him. Worried about him hurting you or Rachel."

"He wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't he? _Didn't_ he already? Lisa, I don't want to put too fine a point on this, but he tried to kill you!"

"Don't be melodramatic."

Julia shook her head, appalled.

"I don't know what kind of hold this man has on you, but you're deaf, dumb, and blind when it comes him. He's a sick man, with violent tendencies and it's insane to have him around your _5-year-old daughter_."

"He adores her," Cuddy said. Now she felt her own lip beginning to quiver. "He would never hurt her."

"He already tried to hurt her!"

"She wasn't home," Cuddy said defensively.

"A technicality. He could've killed all of us."

"He was out of his mind on drugs," she protested. "He wasn't himself."

"He was out of his mind on drugs because he's a _drug addict_, Lis. That's what drug addicts do. They take drugs and then they blame their reckless, dangerous, unconscionable behavior on those drugs, as if that's some sort of valid excuse."

"He's totally clean," Cuddy lied.

"Bullshit," Julia countered.

"No. . .he's . . . he hasn't taken a single pill since he got here."

"_Since he got here_? Exactly how long as he been here?"

"I brought him home from the funeral."

"That was almost three weeks ago! Are you telling me he's been living here for three weeks?" She shook her head.

"You're a fool."

"I am not!"

"Yes, you are. And I swear, if you don't get him out of here by tomorrow, I'm calling mom, and she's going to call Dr. Ambrose, and we are staging an intervention."

"That won't be necessary," House said. He had emerged from his room with his leather jacket on and his duffel bag over his shoulder. "It's obviously time for me to go."

"No, it isn't," Cuddy said.

"That's the most sensible thing I've ever heard him say," Julia said.

"Nice to see you, too, Julia," House said.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Where are my manners?" Julia sniped. "It's been so long. When _wa_s the last time I saw you. . .Oh, I know! It was when you tried to _run me over with your car_. I never got to say a proper hello in that moment, either."

"Yeah. . .kind of went to jail for that," House said.

"Not nearly long enough, if you ask me."

"Julia, that's enough," Lisa said. "House, go back to your room."

"Can you give me ride to the train station?" House said to Julia, ignoring her.

"Gladly," Julia said.

House turned to Cuddy.

"The guys from the rental place can come get the bike tomorrow," he said.

"House, you're not going to anywhere," Cuddy said.

"It's for the best," House said. "I'm causing trouble for you."

"Listen to the psychopath," Julia said. "He's making a lot of sense."

"Technically, it's narcissist with anti-social tendencies, but I answer to psychopath in a pinch," House said.

He turned back to Cuddy.

"I appreciate everything you've done for me more than you'll ever know. Tell the rug rat I'll see her soon."

"No!" Cuddy said, firmly. She grabbed House's hand.

"He's not going anywhere," she said to Julia. "This is my house. My family. My choices."

House looked down at her hand, then at Julia.

"I guess I'm not going anywhere," he said.

Julia looked stunned.

"Think about what you're doing, Lis. You're picking him over me. You're picking a man who drove his car into your house over your own sister. Your own flesh and blood."

"No, I'm not," Cuddy said. "It's you who's making ultimatums."

"Because I love you. Because I see how he twists everything."

"You're the one who's got it twisted, " Cuddy said. Then she added defiantly: "I want you to go."

"Lisa, you're making a huge mistake."

"No, the mistake was you coming over here like this. Unannounced. Making threats. I'll never forgive you for this, Julia. Never."

Julia looked at House, then back at her sister. She knew she was defeated.

"Just don't come crying to me like you did last time, when this all blows up in your face." She was so angry, her face was turning red. "And for God's sake, don't fuck him again. Unless it's too late and you've fucked him already."

"Nice mouth," House said.

"Go," Cuddy said, pointing to the door.

Julia made a "hrmmph" type sound and stormed out.

After she was gone, Cuddy and House slumped onto the couch, side by side.

"Are you okay?" House asked her.

"I'm fine," Cuddy said, through slightly gritted teeth.

He looked at her.

"You're shaking," he said.

He put his arm around her and she let him.

"I'm fine," she repeated.

"Maybe I really should go," he said quietly.

"Do you want to go?" she asked.

"No," he said honestly.

"And I want you to stay," she said.

"But I'm causing trouble with your family."

"There's all different kinds of family, House."

Upon hearing that, House felt like his heart might burst. He tried to cover it with a joke.

"I hope in this family scenario, I'm the hunky distant cousin that you want to have sex with, not the creepy half-brother who masturbates to his Lara Croft videos in his room," he said.

She chuckled, put her head on his shoulder.

"We're going to be okay, House," she said.

"Yeah," he said. "Thanks to you."

#####


	7. Complicated

**Author's Note: Okay, kids. So this was SUPPOSED to be the final chapter of my dead!Wilson fic. But I get the strong sense that people want more and I'm willing to oblige. So please tell me in the comments section what you would like to see next. House in therapy? Julia's intervention? More discussion of Wilson? More discussion of their past? (If so, of what specifically?) I'm wide open. Anyway, hope you enjoy.**

Ever since she had taken the job as the assistant to the director of medicine, Heather Cavanaugh had been curious about the private life of her beautiful boss. There were rumors, of course. One rumor was that Dr. Cuddy had a boyfriend, a famous intellectual of some sort, who lived on the Champs Elysees in Paris. Another rumor said she had fled her last job to get away from a violent, crazed lover. (Heather thought that rumor was bogus—Dr. Cuddy was far too formidable a woman to ever be anyone's victim.) Another, inevitable, rumor was that she was gay.

In two years of working for her, Heather had never once heard Dr. Cuddy mention a man, a boyfriend, a husband—anything. (Although, the easiest way to make her boss smile was to ask her about her daughter.)

This was why it was all the more intriguing when a tall, middle-aged guy with a limp showed up at Heather's desk on a Thursday morning, asking to see Dr. Cuddy.

He was lanky and lean and everything about him seemed lugubriously lived-in, from his well-worn jeans to his beat-up leather jacket to the coating of stubble that covered his chin. His eyes were so piercingly blue, she had to physically force herself to look away.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, glancing down at her day planner.

"Nope," he said confidently. "But she'll see me anyway."

"And whom should I say is here to see her?"

"Her roommate," he said casually. "Nice use of whom, by the way."

Whoa.

She picked up the phone, dialed Dr. Cuddy's office.

"Ya," Dr. Cuddy said, impatiently. She had a brusqueness about her sometimes that Heather found intimidating.

"There's a gentleman here to see you," Heather said.

As a joke, the man looked over his shoulder, as if looking for the gentleman.

"Heather, I'm busy. And I don't have any appointments scheduled," Dr. Cuddy said.

"He says he's your. . .roommate?"

It was as though she could actually hear the tension lift from Dr. Cuddy's voice through the phone.

"Send him in," she said cheerfully.

######

House plopped onto the chair across from Cuddy's desk.

He looked around the office.

"You could park a monster truck in here," he said.

"Don't get any bright ideas," she replied.

They exchanged an awkward glance—any reference to House's extremely assholish behavior after their breakup was not exactly welcome.

"So what brings you here, roomie?" Cuddy said, with a slight smile.

"You left so quickly this morning, you didn't have a chance for breakfast, so I thought I'd bring you this blueberry muffin."

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled, somewhat greasy brown bag. He peered into the bag, with some dismay: "Well, blueberry crumble," he said, handing it to her.

"And that's why you drove across town?" Cuddy said, taking the bag from him. (She considered throwing it directly into the trash, but decided that would be rude.) "To bring me breakfast?"

"Also, I've been thinking. . ." House said.

"Always ominous words," she teased.

"After last night's drama with Julia, I obviously have to stick around for a while, if for no other reason than just to really, really annoy her—"

He looked up to see if Cuddy was on his side.

She smiled encouragingly.

"And if I'm going to be staying for a while, I obviously can't continue to be a freeloader—although I am quite good at it. So I'm going to start looking for work."

"As a doctor?" Cuddy said.

"Either that or an extremely overqualified candy striper," he said.

"I'm thrilled, House," she said. "I'll make some phone calls. Call in some favors. See if there are any openings."

"Thank you," he said, looking quite pleased with himself.

"But I have some conditions," Cuddy said, cautiously.

"Shoot," he said, grinning.

"I need you to start detoxing off vicodin."

The pleased look on his face instantly evaporated.

"But you told Julia I was clean," he said.

"I lied," she said.

"So .. . you know."

"Of course I know, House. I think we both know that I'm pretty good at figuring out when you're on pills."

Another unfortunate reference.

House rubbed his hands on his legs.

"I'm in pain," he said.

"I know," she said.

"A lot," he said.

"I know," she repeated. "We can wean you off the pills. Start on you on a non-opiate, like clonodine."

He rolled his eyes.

"That's like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound."

"House, when we were dating, you were totally drug free. You did it before, you can do it again."

"That was different. I had a best friend then," he muttered. "And . . . a girlfriend."

She felt a bit stung by that.

"You know I'm here for you," she said.

"I know you are," he said, looking at the floor. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant I had other means of. . . distraction."

She felt her face grow a little red.

"Will you at least try, House? For me?"

He looked at her sincerely.

"Okay," he said.

"There's one more thing."

"Jesus. That isn't enough?"

"I need you to start talking to someone—a therapist."

"Is this a requirement for anyone who lives with you, or just me?"

"House, I'm serious."

"Cuddy, you know that therapy and I aren't exactly—"

"Look, I may've kicked Julia out last night. But not everything she said was wrong. You totally lost it on me two years ago. I'm letting you live in my house with my daughter. This is non-negotiable."

There was a long silence.

"Fine," he said.

"Fine?"

"You said it was non-negotiable."

"It is," she said.

"Then don't look so surprised."

#####

After he left, Heather made up a fake excuse—an employee leave form that needed signing— to go to Cuddy's office. Then she lingered.

"So that guy was really your roommate?" she asked.

Cuddy nodded.

"He's totally hot," Heather said.

"Dangerously so. . ." Cuddy agreed.

"And is he also your boyfriend?"

Cuddy hesitated.

"Ex," she admitted.

"You're living with your ex boyfriend?"

"It's. . . complicated."

"Facebook status of my life," Heather said sympathetically.

########

Turns out, it wasn't that easy for House to find a job. His reputation preceded him. Either they wanted his medical genius but were put off by his prison record, or they didn't care about his prison record but were put off by his anti-establishment tendencies.

Lots of doors were closed in his face.

But one night, he came home on the late side—Rachel was already in bed—and barged giddily into Cuddy's home office.

"I got it!" he said.

She hadn't seen him this happy since he'd moved in.

"Got what?"

"The job. At Triboro Medical."

"House! That's great."

"They've opened up a new diagnostic wing—a state of the art facility—I mean, you should see this place. The most up to date MRIs, scanners, robotics. I was practically drooling. And guess who they want to run the department?"

"Who?" she said, playing along.

"This guy."

"House, I'm so happy for you!"

She got up from her desk, gave him a hug. He hugged back and almost instantly found her mouth, began kissing her.

She kissed back, because his mouth felt good and because she had been fantasizing about kissing him since their late night encounter in the hallway.

His hands were all over and his tongue grew more insistent and she felt herself go weak in the knees.

But then she remembered a deceptively simple promise she'd made herself: No sex with House.

Sex with House complicated everything. It made her crazy.

She could keep her wits about her, make sound judgments for herself and Rachel, as long as she wasn't having sex with Gregory House.

So she backed up.

"House, no!" she scolded.

He looked startled, disappointed—then he composed himself.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just got . . . carried away."

"It's okay," she said.

"It won't happen again," he said.

"Okay," she nodded. Then she gave a conciliatory smile. "I really am happy for you."

#####

Later that night, she knocked on his bedroom door.

He was on his bed, in his pajamas, reading The New England Journal of Medicine.

She smiled. Doing homework.

"I come bearing gifts," she said.

And she handed him a package, wrapped in newspaper.

He opened it: The framed photo of him, her, and Wilson, from the PPTH ball.

He stared at it for a long time.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"I swiped it from Wilson's room after the funeral," she said.

"Nice," he said, with a soft smile.

He continued to stare at the photo. He was lost in a kind of reverie.

"God you looked beautiful that night," he said.

Cuddy felt herself blush.

"Look at how happy we were," he said quietly, almost talking to himself. "I don't think we even knew how happy we were."

"No," she said. "We didn't."

"Fucking Wilson," House said, shaking his head. "Fucking Wilson."

He closed his eyes.

She put her hand on his shoulder.

"House, you gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," he said. He fingered the photo's frame. "Is this. . .for me?"

"Yeah . . . a peace offering," she said.

"Thank you. But I'm the one who should be giving you peace offerings," he said.

"No. . . I'm the queen of mixed signals. I know that. I just think we're better off keeping things. . .uncomplicated."

"Cuddy, we don't do uncomplicated," he said.

"No, I suppose we don't," she agreed. "Anyway, I'll leave you to your studying, new Head of Diagnostics at Triboro Medical Center."

He gave a proud smile.

"Not too shabby for an ex con, huh?" he said.

"Not too shabby at all."

#####

Two nights later, Cuddy was on the couch reading the latest Jonathan Franzen novel and House was at the kitchen table with Rachel, trying to teach her how to play chess.

"She's too young for chess," Cuddy had told him. "She's only 5."

"I could play chess when I was 5," House protested.

Cuddy laughed, pat him on the arm.

"I know you could."

Now, House was getting frustrated.

"It's not a horsey," he was saying to Rachel. "It's a knight."

"It's a horsey!" Rachel said.

"It's a knight!"

"I'll call it Sparkles!"

"You can't call it Sparkles. It's a dude."

He looked at Cuddy.

"Bobby Fisher she ain't."

His phone rang.

"Hold that thought, shorty," he said to Rachel. "Remember. Knight. And that's a castle. Not a salt shaker."

He spoke into the phone.

"House here," he said.

His face grew serious as he listened to the voice on the other end.

"Yeah. . .I. . .understand. I. . .no . .. it's not your fault. . . I wish things could be different, too. . . . Okay. . .Good night."

He hung up. He looked totally deflated.

"What's wrong?" Cuddy said, putting down her book and stepping toward him.

"That was Dr. Singh at Triboro Medical," he said. "The board found out about my little time at the state penitentiary and they're reneging the offer."

"Oh House. . ."

"He said he fought for me but the board, quote unquote 'thought you were too much of a liability.'"

"I'm so sorry."

He looked over at Rachel, who was regarding him warily. She wasn't used to seeing House this upset.

"Kiddo, can we pick up this game again tomorrow?" he said. "I'm not really in a chess mood anymore."

"It's a knight!" Rachel said, trying to cheer him up.

"Yeah," House said, looking down.

"Rachel, it's your bedtime anyway," Cuddy said. "C'mon sweetie, let's go to your room."

Rachel got up sullenly from her chair, wordlessly followed her mom into her bedroom.

Half an hour later, after Rachel had been put to sleep, Cuddy knocked on the door to House's room. He didn't answer, but she let herself in anyway.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead.

"I picked a really lousy time to ask you to get off vicodin," she said. An attempt at a joke.

"I'm totally fucked," he said.

"No you're not.

"I'm unhirable," he said. "I'm poison. I'm never going to work in medicine again."

"House, don't do this to yourself."

"I'm being tested," he said. "It feels like I'm being tested."

She took his hand and kissed it.

"You're not," she said.

Her lips lingered on his skin a long time.

Then she leaned over and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

Her eternal need to console him was blending with her eternal need to bodily possess him—making it very hard to keep her promise to herself.

She kissed his closed eyelid.

He turned to her, confused, hopeful.

She kissed his mouth.

He stayed perfectly still.

She kissed his mouth again.

He opened his mouth a little, just enough to let her tongue slip in.

She began to kiss him more ardently, to the point where he had no choice but to kiss back. He took her face in his hands and his tongue began exploring her mouth.

She let out a tiny, stuttered sigh.

His mouth migrated to her neck, then between her breasts.

"Is this okay?" he breathed.

"Yes," she said.

He began to unbutton her blouse, then cupped her breasts.

"Is this okay?" he said hoarsely.

"Yes," she said.

He was reaching under her bra now, roughly pulling the fabric to the side, so he could take her whole breast in his mouth.

"Is this okay?" he repeated.

She fumbled for his pants, began to unzip them.

"House, I want you inside me," she demanded.

Now he didn't hesitate.

He pulled down her pants and in moments, he was on top of her, inside her, making love to her. He moaned her name and she moaned his and they came, as they often did, at the exact same time. The problem with sex with House was not that it wasn't satisfying enough—it was that it was too satisfying.

Afterwards, she got up quickly.

"I gotta go," she said.

He was lying naked, on top of the sheets, looking at her.

"Stay," he said.

"I can't. "

"Is this one of those mixed signals you were talking about?" he said.

She smiled sheepishly.

"I guess so."

He gave a little, defeated grin.

"You're amazing. Do you know that?"

"So are you," she said. She peeked into the hall to make sure Rachel wasn't awake and tiptoed back to her bedroom.

#######

The next morning, they all had breakfast together. House was reading the newspaper. Cuddy was making pancakes.

Rachel kept looking at House and laughing.

"What are you laughing at?" he said.

"You," she said, giggling.

"Why?" he said.

"Your eyes are happy," she said.

"How bout those Yankees?" House said loudly, acting like he was very interested in something in the newspaper.

Cuddy sat across from him.

"There's something I didn't tell you about my new job," she said.

"What's that?" he said, idly. He was pretending to steal pieces of pancake off Rachel's plate. She kept slapping his hand away.

"I have complete hiring autonomy."

"Oh, yeah?" he said. Now he was hiding the maple syrup behind his back.

Rachel was giggling uncontrollably.

"And I have an opening in the infectious disease department."

He stopped playing with Rachel, looked at her. He finally grasped what she was saying.

"It's not a department head. Just a garden variety attending physician. But if you want it, the job is yours."

His mouth dropped open.

"Cuddy, do you really know what you're saying?"

"I know that the idea of you not practicing medicine offends me to the core. And I know that I'm in a position to do something about it."

"Are you. . .sure?"

"I'm sure."

House looked at Rachel, then back at Cuddy.

"When do I start?" he said.


	8. Promises

What had she done?

It wasn't that Cuddy's job offer to House wasn't in good faith. It was heartfelt, it came from a very genuine place. He was the greatest medical mind of his generation. He deserved to have a job.

But, like so many other decisions she'd made lately, it was totally impulsive. There were multiple factors she hadn't even considered: House's addiction for one. If he was going to start at Scarsdale General in two weeks, the slow curbing of his vicodin habit they had planned was going to have turn into a full-scale rapid detox.

Then there was the pesky fact that nepotism was explicitly forbidden in hiring practices: Did an ex boyfriend who she was currently living with and (_shit! shit!_) _sleeping with_ fall under the umbrella of nepotism? And what if her colleagues found out about their past? They'd lose all respect for her. What kind of unbalanced lunatic hires a man who once tried to kill her?

Cuddy prided herself on being a woman of reason, of sound judgment, who carefully weighed the pros and cons of any given situation. And yet, as always, House threw her equilibrium completely out of orbit.

She lay in bed that night, reflecting on the many reckless choices she had made just in the few weeks since House had come back into her life.

There had been the decision to drive him home from the funeral, for starters—she'd already given his keys to Foreman, she knew House would get home safely. But she couldn't walk away. ("Please don't leave me!" he had screamed. And she didn't have the heart.)

That bad decision begat another one—to stay the night in his apartment—which in turn led to what was possibly the most reckless decision of them all: To let House move in with her and Rachel. (At least part of her anger at Julia that night was because she knew that everything her sister had said was true. It was madness to let him move with her. Madness.)

Then—and she almost had to laugh at her own weakness here, the weakness of the flesh—she'd had sex with him. She'd made but one hard and fast rule for herself: No sex with House. It was unambiguous, unequivocal, almost elegant in its simplicity and she'd lasted—what?— 21 days?

To make matters worse, she was the one who had seduced him! She'd successfully thwarted his fervent kiss after the excitement of his job offer—and he'd backed off, so afraid to cross a line with her, so terrified of losing her support. He would've stayed in his room, kept his hands off her forever, if that's what she really wanted. And a day later, she's on his bed, peeling off her clothing, and sucking on his cock.

_Nice work, Lisa_, she thought.

At least. . .she still had the upper hand in this situation, right? He would stay away. Wait for her next move. She was still totally in control. . .

"Hi," a voice whispered in the dark.

_Crap._

"House. . .my door was closed," Cuddy said, instinctively pulling the covers up tightly over her nightie.

"I know. . . I didn't want to knock in case you were asleep."

"That makes no sense whatso. . . " she started, but stopped, because House had climbed into bed with her.

He was wearing the same white tee-shirt and striped pajama bottoms from their encounter in the hallway. For some reason, this particular choice of garb was now an instant turn-on to her.

He hovered over her, propped up on his hands, as though about to do a push-up.

"House. . .what are you doing?" she said.

"I wanted to thank you for what you did for me," he said, nuzzling her neck. Then he smiled and said in her ear: "And also for the job offer."

"House, I need you to. . ."

"And since you're going to be my boss again, I thought you might want to start giving me orders right away," he breathed.

He kissed her bottom lip.

"Should I kiss you there" he said. "Or there?"—and he kissed the base of her throat.

"House. . ."

"Should I bite you there," he said, nibbling at her ear."Or there?"—and he lightly tugged at the fabric over her breast with his teeth.

"Should I touch you there," he said, reaching under the blanket and dissecting the crotch of her panties with one quick stroke. "Or there?"—and he reached under her panties and slipped two fingers inside her.

She squirmed a bit, and gasped, under his touch.

"There then," he said, reaching further and kissing her, this time fully, on the mouth.

"House! No!" she said, pushing him away.

He suddenly realized that all of her demurrals were serious.

He rolled off her.

"_Really_ Cuddy?" he said, sitting up, slightly annoyed.

She turned on the light next to the bed.

"The problem is House. . . " her voice was somewhat desperate. "If I take you back in my bed, then we're back together for real. As a couple. And I'm just not sure I'm ready to make that leap yet. It's all happened so fast, we've both been so emotional. I just can't have you sleeping in my bed yet with me. I can't spend the night with you. It can't be like this. Do you understand that. . .at all?"

She turned to him expectantly.

"Yeah," he said. "I do."

There was a silence.

"My room then?" he said, with a tiny smile.

Cuddy sighed.

"Okay," she said.

#####

The next morning, House wandered into the kitchen, where Cuddy was waiting for him at the kitchen table.

"Morning sunshine," he said, smirking a bit.

"Morning," Cuddy said.

"Where's the rug rat?"

"She's at school, House. It's 11 o clock."

House glanced at the clock over the oven.

"So it is," he said, stretching. "I slept like a baby last night."

It suddenly dawned on him that it was a Thursday and she wasn't at work.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I took the morning off," Cuddy said.'

"If you took the morning off because you want to spend it having sex with me, then my dream box is more powerful than I thought!" House joked.

"We need to talk," she said.

"What's up," he asked, sitting down across from her. All the mirth was gone from his voice. He was officially freaking out.

"If you're going to come work at Scarsdale General, I need you off vicodin," Cuddy said.

"I know," House said. "I said that I would wean myself. . ."

"No weaning. I need you to go cold turkey. If you're taking the job, you'll be starting in less than two weeks."

"Oh," House said, looking at his hands.

"So we can do it one of two ways," Cuddy said, all business. "I can make some phone calls, get you into a rehab facility. Or we can do it together, here at home."

"The rehab facility," House said, quickly.

Cuddy was surprised.

"Really?" she said.

"I don't want Rachel to see me when I'm detoxing," House said. "It isn't pretty."

"I know," Cuddy said. "I already called my neighbor Nancy. She said she'd watch her."

"I don't want _you _to see me when I'm detoxing," he said.

"I think I've pretty much seen you at your worst, House," Cuddy said.

"No, nothing could prepare you for how bad it gets," House said. "Nothing."

"I'm a doctor," Cuddy said. "I know what detoxing looks like."

"I'll take the rehab facility," he repeated.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. . ." he said, unconvincingly.

"I'm just. . . really surprised," Cuddy said. "I thought the two of us could do it privately and it would be like. . .like. . ."

"My hallucination?" House said.

Cuddy looked at him.

"Yeah," she said quietly.

He sighed.

"I'll say things," he said.

"I know," she said.

"Horrible things. Things that I don't mean."

"I know," she said.

"And then you'll stop. . ."

_Loving me._

"I could never stop . . . caring about you, House."

She felt disingenuous saying all this. She had something of an ulterior motive for wanting House to detox in her home. She wanted to see how bad—yes, how _violent_—he got in his darkest hour.

She had convinced herself that the car crash was a drug-fueled aberration, that it didn't' reflect who he really was or would ever be again.

But a detoxing drug addict is as primal a creature as there is—he is all need, all single-minded, raging _want_.

If that primal version of House tried to hurt her—physically tried to hurt her—there was no way she could let him stay around Rachel. It wasn't fair. But it was the way it had to be.

"You promise?" he said now, looking at her pathetically. "Because I'd rather stay locked up in a loony bin for months than run the risk of. . ."

"I promise," she said.


	9. Making Sense

She gave him three days to try to scale back his vicodin consumption, which was supposed to help with the withdrawal, and which he claimed to have done but she wasn't totally sure she believed him.

She sent Rachel to spend the weekend with Nancy. (Nancy's daughter Abigail, who was Rachel's age, already had a whole litany of activities planned, most that involved stickers and glitter and dressing up the family cat in funny hats.)

And then Cuddy and House sat stiffly, side by side on the couch.

"Are you ready?" she asked.

"Most definitely not," he cracked.

She smiled at him.

"Too late," she teased.

"What about you?" he asked seriously. "You ready? This is probably going to be harder on you than it is on me."

"I doubt that," Cuddy said. But she knew there was some truth to what he said. Jonesing addicts were miserable to be around and . . . could get very aggressive.

"So before we start, is there anything you need?" she asked.

"A loaded shotgun?" he quipped.

She shook her head.

"Not funny, House. I was thinking more along the lines of ginger ale or mint tea."

"Ahhh," he said, smiling slightly. "So I guess a blow job is completely out of the question?"

"Still not funny, House," she said.

"A _little_ funny."

She looked at him.

"I hate to ask you this, but I have to . . . .have you really given me everything?"

Earlier in the day, he had handed over 4 bottles of pills. She had ground them into a powder and flushed them down the toilet.

"Yes," he said.

"Because what's the point of doing all this if you leave yourself an out. . .and we both know if there's an out, you'll take it."

"Where could I possibly keep a stash?" House said. "I came here with a duffel bag and the clothes on my back. I have one small room that you already thoroughly went over with a fine tooth comb yesterday when you conveniently _suggested_ I go for a ride."

"You know about that, huh?" she said guiltily.

"I'd lose all respect for you if you didn't search my shit. But did you find anything?"

"No," she admitted.

"Because there's nothing to find."

"Okay," she said.

"Okay," he repeated.

She took him in. He looked remarkably composed. Not scared at all.

"So now what?" she said.

"Now we wait for me to turn into Linda Blair,'' he said.

She laughed.

"Okay, I'm going to make lunch. May as well eat now when you can."

She went into the kitchen and started cutting up Granny Smith apples and cranberries to make chicken salad.

"It's going remarkably well so far!" he shouted cheerfully into the kitchen.

She laughed. As long as he still had his sense of humor, she knew things would be okay.

They ate lunch—well, she ate lunch. House played with his food, the first sign that he really was nervous.

"House, you should really eat something," she cajoled.

"Anything I eat now is just going to come up later," he said.

"At least try."

He took a rather theatrical bite out of the corner of the sandwich.

"Happy now?" he said.

She shrugged.

After, she decided to go to the store to buy a few groceries, plus some DVDs and magazines. He was going to need as much distraction as possible.

"You have my list?" he said, before she left.

His list of DVDs included Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, Caddyshack, Scarface, and Ferris Bueller's Day Off.

"Got it," she said.

"Also, if you could pick up a few more things," he said.

"Shoot."

"Half a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, and four bottles of vicodin," he said.

Still joking. Good.

"I'll be back in an hour. You going to be okay while I'm gone."

"Cuddy, I've been known to go more than two whole hours without vicodin," he said. "I think I'll muddle through."

But it was something of a lie. Because by the time she got back, she could already begin to see the effects. He was in a bit of a lather—restless and sweaty.

"You okay?" she asked, emptying the contents of her bags.

He popped up to help her put away the groceries, something he never did.

He _was_ looking for distraction.

"Did you get the movies?" he said, peering in the bag.

"Everything but Caddyshack," she said.

He looked disappointed.

"So I got you Happy Gilmore and Ghostbusters instead," she said.

"I love you," he said. It was meant as a joke, but it was a little too close to reality for both of them.

"I'll never know what you see in those stupid movies," she said, quickly.

She handed him a box of Cheerio's, which he went to place in a shelf, but as he leaned on one leg, he stumbled a bit and grabbed his right leg in pain.

"House, you okay?"

"Fine," he said. "Not withdrawal related. Just normal cripple stuff."

An hour later, though, the pain was beginning to intensify.

She put on Happy Gilmore, which he watched for a bit, barely laughing, until it was clear that he couldn't concentrate anymore. He was now practically squirming in pain—and the withdrawal symptoms were starting to set in, too: Tremors, rapid blinking, tears in his eyes.

"Do you need to throw up?" she said.

"No," he said, closing his eyes. "Not yet."

He continued to writhe in pain, he was doubled over.

She began to rub his back.

"It's okay, House," she murmured. "It's okay."

He looked at her, somewhat beseechingly.

"Cuddy why?"

At first he thought she meant, why was it so important that he was drug free, but then she realized he meant: Why was she taking care of him? Why was she rubbing his back? Why was she even treating him like somebody who _deserved_ to be taken care of?

"Because if not me, than who?" she said.

"Maybe I deserve to be alone," he said, through slightly chattering teeth.

"Nobody deserves to be alone, House," she said.

"I do," he said.

"No," she said. "You don't."

"Cuddy?" he said.

"Yeah House?"

"I gotta hurl."

The first few times he threw up, they went to the bathroom. After that, she just got a bucket.

Then the pain got worse and the bargaining began.

"I need my pills Cuddy," he begged. "You gotta help me. I'm going to die."

"You're not going to die."

"The pain is killing me Cuddy. It's killing me. I _need_ them. I'm serious. I can't take it. I'm going to die."

"House, I can't. . ."

"I'll be good. I'll be discreet. No one will know I'm on drugs. I'm a better doctor when I'm vicodin. We both know that. . . _Pleeeease_. . ."

"House, just breathe."

He tried to breathe, clenched his fists, rocked back and forth on the couch, and let out a blood-curdling scream.

Cuddy felt chilled to the bone. She grabbed his hand, which he squeezed tightly.

One of the many reasons she and House had been so good together, was because they had a physical connection that bordered on extrasensory. (The mutual orgasm had been a rare and elusive thing in Cuddy's sexual life before she met House. With him, it was almost routine.)

Now, as the pain emanated off him, she felt as though she herself was going to be sick. She tried to steady her own breathing.

House got up slowly from the couch.

"Where are you going?" she said.

"I have to pee," he said.

"I brought home a bed pan," she said.

"I'm not quite at the no dignity stage yet," he said.

"Do you need help?" she said.

"I've been peeing on my own for quite some time now."

He got up, and with great effort, limped to the bathroom, almost falling down twice.

It was all she could do not to run up to him, steady him. But she knew he still needed to do some things on his own.

Her mind drifted a bit. She thought of the first time she saw House's scar—when he had dropped trou in her office that time, begging for morphine. Then she thought about that night they made love after Trenton, when he let her touch it, kiss it. . .That scar symbolized so much. Not just his pain, but their closeness. Their connection.

She suddenly realized he had been gone for several minutes.

She stood up.

"House?" she called out.

She raced down the hall, barged into the bathroom, but it was empty.

Then she ran into House's room.

He was on the bed. He had his duffel bag open and he was ripping into its lining with a knitting hook he had obviously stolen from the sewing kit in her bedroom.

She realized that he had sewn pills into the lining of his bag.

Of course. She was a fool. There was no way an addict like him wouldn't have a backup to the backup to the backup.

"House!" she yelled.

"Go away!" he screamed.

"No!"

She climbed onto the bed, tried to take the knitting hook out of his hand.

"Cuddy, get out of here," he said, shaking his arm loose and struggling with the lining. He had sufficiently torn it—she could see a small baggy of pills inside. She tried to pull him away, but he dove for the pills. But her reflexes were quicker than his and she got to them first.

"Noooooo!" he screamed.

Now she was holding the pills in her hand, over her head—she possessed the very thing he wanted more than anything. The thing he would positively kill for.

She braced herself for impact.

But it never came.

"Cuddy please," he said pathetically. "I need those."

And he curled up into a fetal position on the bed and he covered his face with his hands.

She put the pills down, out of his reach and went to him.

"House, shhhhh," she murmured. "You're going to be okay."

She wiped his matted hair off his face, kissed his temple, rocked him in her arms, all the while, murmuring, "Shhhhh, shhhh," like the way she used to console Rachel when she was a baby.

"You don't need those pills," she repeated. "You don't need them."

"I need you," he said, half-consciously. And somehow, in her arms, he managed to fall asleep.

When he woke, he was ranting like a mad man.

"It makes no sense," he kept saying. "Cuddy, it makes no sense. . . I keep trying to figure it out, but it makes no sense."

"House, I don't understand. . ."

"There's no plan. There's no reason. It's all just chaos. . ."

"What's all just chaos, House?"

"He was good. He was so good. I'm bad. I'm the worst . .why was it him, Cuddy? Why wasn't it me? Why can't things ever just make sense?"

Of course. Wilson.

"House, you're not bad," she said.

"I am bad. I am . . ."

"If you're so bad, why did Wilson love you?" she said gently. "Why do I?"

"Please make it make sense for me, Cuddy," he pleaded "Make it make sense. . ."

She wasn't sure now if he was still talking about Wilson's death or the unconditional love of his two best friends.

"Some things just don't make sense, House," she said.

#####

She fell asleep, fully clothed, on the bed next to him.

He had vomiting, more tremors, more screaming in pain—and it was a restless night, for both of them.

But in the morning, he seemed calmer.

"Feel better?" Cuddy asked.

She knew she looked a mess—her clothing was wrinkled and her hair was askew. Normally, she wouldn't want House to see her like that. But of course, right now, neither of them cared.

"Yeah," he said, looking at her like she some kind of mirage, an angel.

She noticed pajamas were coated in sweat.

She went into his drawer, found another white t-shirt for him.

"Here," she said.

But instead of putting on the shirt, he raised his arms over his head like a child, expecting her to take off his shirt and dress him.

So she did.

She made him some broth, which he ate—and they wandered to the couch and watched Ferris Bueller's Day Off together, which made them both laugh.

"Thank you, Cuddy," he said to her.

He was still sick, dazed, out of it. But he was beginning to sound more like himself.

"You're welcome," she said.

"I don't deserve this. . .any of it."  
"Of course you do."

"But when you were sick," he said quietly. "I wasn't there for you."

"But you werethere, for Wilson."

He looked into her eyes.

"I was there for Wilson precisely _because_ I wasn't there for you. . ." he said.

She took his hand.

"And now I'm here for you."


	10. Need

"I've been looking at your file," said Dr. Hirsch. "It makes for a very interesting read."

"Oh that?" said House, with false modesty. "That's nothing. Wait til you see the movie."

Dr. Hirsch smiled.

It was his first meeting with House and he was trying to get a feel for him. According to the notes from Mayfield, he was confrontational, highly antagonistic toward authority, and disdainful of the entire psychological profession.

According to the notes from four separate doctors at the New Jersey Penitentiary, he was "completely untreatable."

Oh goody, Dr. Hirsch thought. A challenge.

"So how's the sobriety going?" he said, flipping through House's file.

"Which one?" House said.

"You've had a setback? Since Mayfield?"

"Setback is one way of putting it," House said. "Colossal failure of epic proportions is another."

"But you're clean now?"

"As of"—House looked at his watch— "four days, 12 hours and 35 minutes ago."

"Congratulations."

"It wasn't a bar mitzvah. There was a lot more vomiting. Although from what I've heard, at Eugene Lieberman's bar mitzvah he yacked all over the—"

"So what inspired this renewed commitment to mental and physical health?" Dr. Hirsch interrupted.

"It's not in there?" House asked, scratching his head. "I'm starting a new job next week."

"Right. At Scarsdale General. Great hospital."

"So they say."

"So. . .this was all your idea. The detox? Coming to see me?"

"Is that really so hard to believe?" House said, crossing his legs.

"Based on your file, yes."

House gave a slight shrug.

"It's possible there was _some_ coercion," he said.

"By whom? New boss?"

"Old boss. And new boss. And, uh, roommate."

"You live with your boss?"

"Ex," House said.

"Ex boss?"

"Ex girlfriend. And current boss. And ex boss. And roommate. Are you even paying attention?"

"Apparently not closely enough."

"Here's the Cliff Note's version: We dated. I fucked it up. We broke up. I started using again. I . . . behaved in an _appallingly reckless_ fashion—I'm sure it's all there in my file. I landed in jail. She didn't talk to me for two years. Our best friend died. She took pity on me, invited me to come live with her and her daughter. She took further pity on me, offered me a job—on the condition that I get clean and . . . see you. And here we are."

"I'm sorry about your friend."

"I'm pretty sure you weren't the one who gave him cancer."

"I'm sorry all the same."

House looked at the floor.

"Thank you," he said.

"It seems like a lot to deal with," Dr. Hirsch said.

"Could be worse. _I_ could've been the one with cancer."

"You seem to deflect a lot with humor," Hirsch said.

"You're good," House said, pointing at him.

"What's that all about?"

"Deflection, obfuscation, mocking—these are the tools of my imagination."

"But if we want to make any progress in here, you're going to have to open up and share your real feelings. Otherwise, it's just a giant waste of both of our time."

"But isn't that what therapy is anyway? A giant waste of everyone's time? They should make your put on it on your door, right under your name, like a surgeon general's warning."

Dr. Hirsch nodded, unfazed.

"Let me ask you something House. Do you have a lot of friends?"

"What part of _he died_ didn't you understand?"

"That's it? One friend? No others?"

"I'm rather fond of a 5-year-old girl."

"Your boss-slash-ex-slash-roommate's daughter."

"Precisely," House said.

"Everyone needs someone to unload on. Maybe, for example, you want to talk about Madame Ex."

"Cuddy," House said.

Dr. Hirsch thought this was a good sign. He wouldn't have given up her name if he didn't want to talk about her.

"Maybe you want to talk about Cuddy," he said.

"What's to talk about?" House said.

Hirsch frowned.

"You're right," he said. "There's clearly nothing to discuss there."

"Now who's deflecting?" House said.

"So if I'm following things correctly—it was her house that you drove your car into?"

"Not her current house. That wouldn't be very wise of me, considering that I live there. But, uh, yes. Her house back in Jersey."

"And yet, she's let you into her home? Offered you a roof over your head? A job? What's that all about?"

"I told you," House said. "She feels sorry for me."

"Huh," Dr. Hirsch said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means huh."

"You don't believe that she feels sorry for me?"

"No, I do. I also think it's obviously a lot more complicated than that."

"Clearly."

"So enlighten me."

"We have a lot of . . .history together."

"I know couples who get married, have children, get divorced and never speak to each other again. History doesn't always equal connection."

"In our case, it does," House said.

"Do you think she loves you?"

"A part of her. . .yes."

"And what are your feelings toward her?"

"I'm madly in love with her," House said.

It was so uncharacteristically straightforward, it almost threw Dr. Hirsch off.

"It must be hard, then. Living with her. Not sleeping with her."

House looked at him.

"Who said we aren't sleeping together?"  
######

That night, House and Cuddy were sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea—he wasn't a tea drinker, but his stomach was still a bit wonky from the detox and it soothed him. Besides, the ritual of the two of them sitting together after Rachel went to bed was something he was beginning to look forward to.

His phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket.

"House," he said.

"House, don't say a word," a familiar female voice intoned.

His mouth dropped open. Arlene Cuddy.

"She's sitting right there with you, isn't she?" Arlene said. "If she's sitting next to you, say, 'As a matter of fact, you are correct.'"

"As a matter of fact, you are correct," House said automatically, still in shock. "How'd you get this number?"

Arlene ignored him.

"Tell her it's a private call and you need to take it in your room."

"Why would I. . ."

"Because you've already screwed up her relationship with her sister. Do you also want to screw up her relationship with her mother?"

House narrowed his eyes. He cupped his hand over the receiver.

"I'm going to take this in my room," he said to Cuddy.

He limped into the bedroom, closed the door.

"What's on your mind Arlene?"

"I'm here," she said.

"Here where?"

"Here in Scarsdale. I'm at the Scarsdale Inn. I want to talk to you. Alone."

"What? Now?"

"You have some other pressing social engagement? Perhaps sex with my eldest?"

"No!" House sputtered. "But it's 9 o clock!"

"An ideal time to meet me an old friend at the bar and buy her a drink," Arlene said.

"How am I supposed to explain this Cuddy? I get a mysterious phone call and the suddenly I . . .leave? She's going be suspicious."

"You're a smart man, House. I have faith in you."

And she hung up.

House stared at the phone. Finally, he made his way back to the kitchen.

"Who was that?" Cuddy said.

"Wilson's mom," House replied, improvising.

"Oh," Cuddy said. "Why'd she call?"

"She was just feeling sad, I guess. And now. . . I'm feeling sad. I think I'm going to go for a ride on my bike . . ."

"Sure," Cuddy said. "Which reminds me. We've got to get your Respol shipped over here. For the amount of money we've spent on that rental we could've bought you two new bikes by now."

"I'll look into it," House said, staring at the floor.

Cuddy peered him, not suspicious, only concerned.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Just need to clear my head," he said.

"Okay. Clear away. I'll see you later."

######

House wasn't intimidated by many people. In fact, it was fair to say he wasn't intimidated by anyone.

But Arlene Cuddy scared the shit out of him.

It wasn't just that she was gruff, humorless and, at times, flat out mean. It was the fact that he so desperately wanted to impress her. She'd been a stealth ally once, a lifetime ago. But he had a hunch that the days of their unlikely alliance were over.

She was sitting at a corner table in the somewhat generic bar—dark wood, faux leather upholstery.

She looked as formidable as ever—a fortress of strength, a woman to be reckoned with.

He inhaled, straightened his shoulders, and joined her.

"You're looking well, Arlene."

"And you look like shit, House," she said.

Off to a great start.

"It's been a rough few weeks, " he said.

"Your whole life has been a series of rough few weeks, hasn't it, House?"

He shrugged.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he said.

"Yes. Vodka gimlet, light on the lime juice."

He walked up to the bar, ordered Arlene's drink and then a double scotch for himself. It was clearly going to be a double scotch kind of night.

Arlene took a sip of her drink and it was obvious from the look on her face that he screwed up her order.

"Is this Belvedere?" she said.

"No, it's . . .Grey Goose. You didn't specify."

"It should always be Belvedere."

"I'll make a note of it."

They glared at each other.

"What are you doing here, Arlene?" he said.

"Trying to talk some sense into you," she said.

"Me?"

"Yes you."

"Isn't this a conversation you should be having with your daughter?"

"No. It's a conversation I should—and am—having with you. So what are you doing with my daughter?"

"I'm . . . benefiting from her generosity."

"Don't you mean _taking advantage_ of her generosity?"

"That's one way to put it."

"You're freeloading!"

"I'm starting a new job on Monday," he said, cautiously, knowing it could backfire.

"Oh really? Who in their right mind would hire you?"

"Scarsdale General," House muttered, under his breath.

"Did you just say _Scarsdale General_?" Arlene said, practically doing a spit-take.

House took a giant gulp of his drink.

"Yeah," he said.

"So let me get this straight. She's housing you, she's feeding you, she's employing you. Is she also bathing you?"

"Only in a strictly non-therapeutic way," he said, instantly regretting it.

Arlene shot him a look.

"Do you remember what I said to you once, about how if you hurt her, I'd kill you?"

"It's kind of hard to forget a conversation like that. I get shrinkage whenever I think of it."

"Well, you hurt her. And yet you still live. Do you know why?"

"I guess you're going to tell me. . ."

"Because I let the state of New Jersey do the punishing instead. Next time, I won't be so forgiving."

"Trust me, I'll never hurt your daughter again."

"You hurt her every second you're with her."

"I don't see it like that."

"You wouldn't."

Another exchange of glares.

House rubbed his leg.

"Did you just _wince_?" Arlene said, without a shred of pity.

"My leg hurts. . ."

"My God. You are a mess House. I'd actually pity you, if you weren't raining your misery down on my daughter."

"Thanks Arlene. You always know just the right thing to say. . ."

"You've ruined her life once. Is the plan to ruin it again?" Arlene said.

"Of course not ."

"That's because you have no plan."

"I plan on doing good work and making her proud."

"Oh yeah, that sounds _just_ like you."

"So what are you suggesting, Arlene? That I move out? That I turn down the job?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm suggesting."

"I can't," House said. "I need her."

"What about her needs?"

"She needs. . ." his voice trailed off.

"You can't even say it, can you? It's so patently ridiculous you can't even say it. Because she doesn't need you. All you do is take and take and take. And then you leave a trail of broken hearts and broken limbs in your wake."

"I made a mistake. I paid a huge price."

"Don't you think you've caused her enough pain, House? Aren't you just selfishly taking advantage of her one Achilles heel, which is her irrational, inexplicable, unfathomable affection for you?"

House swigged the last of his drink.

"Are we done here?" he asked.

"No," she said.

She pulled out her checkbook.

House stared at it, incredulously.

"How much is it going to take to get you out of her life? $50,000? $75,000? Anything beyond that and I'm going to have to cash in a few savings bonds. . ."

"Arlene, I don't want your money."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want you to let Lisa make her own decisions."

"When she makes bad decisions, I help her. That's what mother's do."

"Then we appear to be at an impasse."

"Oh no. We've just begun here. Hell hath no fury like a Cuddy woman scorned."

"Yeah, kind of knew that already."

"In the meantime House, I want to you think about this: You clearly have bad morals, bad judgment and bad hygiene, but I do believe you love my daughter. And because of that, I trust that you're going to come to your senses and do the right thing."

House stood up.

"Thanks Arlene. The pleasure has been all yours."

"And remember, don't breathe a word of this to Lisa."

"I don't keep secrets from her."

Arlene rolled her eyes.

"Of course you do. Does she have any idea how desperately and pathetically in love with her you are?"

House ignored her.

"Good night," he said.

"This isn't over House. Do as I say or this has just begun."

"Good night," he repeated.

And he left.

######

It was past midnight when he got home and the house was dark and quiet.

He crept into his bedroom, climbed into bed.

His head was spinning.

For once in his miserable life, he wanted to do the right thing. But he also didn't want to leave.

He thought of Julia driving three hours in the middle of the night to warn her; Arlene pulling out her checkbook.

_The people who love Cuddy most in the world would do anything to get rid of you_.

He sighed.

The door opened. Cuddy was standing in the doorway dressed in that devastatingly sexy nightie she had worn that night in the hallway.

(He had jerked off to the image of her in that nightie more times than he cared to admit.)

"How was the ride?" she whispered.

"Good," he said.

"Head fully cleared?"

"Never," he chuckled.

"And your leg?"

"Okay. . . I took a clonodine."

"Good."

And she climbed into bed and straddled him.

She looked down at him, gave him a kiss.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi," he said, kissing back.

Despite House's boasts to Arlene about non-therapeutic baths, they'd only had sex those two times. That first night, after he lost the job, and then again, when she'd given him the speech about the symbolic significance of sex in her room.

"You feel good," she said, kissing him again, and beginning to rub his chest and stomach.

"So do you," he said.

But then he came to his senses.

"Cuddy. . . I . . . can't," he said.

She stopped kissing him, stunned.

"Is it your leg?"

"No, it's. . .I'm taking advantage of you."

She furrowed her brow a bit.

"House, what part of me climbing into bed with you in a barely there nightgown reads as _you_ taking advantage of _me_?"

"The part where you think you want to, but you'll regret it later," he muttered.

She sat up, still straddling him.

"Where is this all coming from?"

"It's just. . .some thoughts I've been having lately," he said.

She leaned forward, her hair grazing his face.

"House, I want you."

"I want you too," he said honestly.

His erection was pressing up against her inner thigh and driving them both crazy.

She kissed him again, grinded slowly up against him.

"House, I need you…." she whispered.

"_Need_?" he said hopefully, kissing her deeply, his hands massaging her ass—a point of no return.

"Yes," she breathed.

"Thank God," he said and he pulled off her nightie.


	11. Nervous

It was House's first day of work and Cuddy was nervous.

Not so much nervous that he was going to screw up, make her regret her decision—although that was a distinct possibility.

She was nervous _for_ him, much the way she had felt on Rachel's first day of nursery school.

It didn't help that he came into the kitchen looking like an anxious school boy, with a tightly knotted tie around his neck, his hair combed, and his hands antsily jiggling a set of keys in his pocket.

"I'm ready to do some doctorin'!" he announced.

"House, you look pretty!" Rachel said.

"I believe the phrase you're looking for is ruggedly handsome," House said.

"Yay! You're a handsome rug!" Rachel agreed.

"Close enough," House shrugged.

He sat down at the kitchen table.

"Is it just me or is it hot in here?" he asked, tugging at his tie.

"It's just you," Cuddy said, pouring him a cup of coffee.

She went back to what she was doing, making oatmeal for Rachel.

House watched her quietly. He sometimes liked to imagine that this was _really_ his life—not just a life he was renting, a man running out of borrowed time. As excited as he was about getting back to work—this at-home griever thing was dull, not to mention emasculating—he knew it would only accelerate the inevitable.

Cuddy would soon see that he was functioning, able to survive on his own two feet (well, more or less), and she would cut him loose.

Maybe she'd miss the sex—she had been sneaking into his room with increasing regularity, to the point where he could get an erection just from hearing the sound of her footsteps tip-toeing toward him in the hall—but she'd probably just find some other guy to get her rocks off with.

It's not like his was the only fully functioning penis in Scarsdale, NY.

He sighed, which Cuddy apparently took the wrong way.

"Don't be so nervous, House," she said, smiling tolerantly. "I'm sure all the other doctors will come to hate, fear, and grudgingly admire you, just like they did at PPTH."

"You always say the nicest things," he said.  
#####

She gave him a mini tour of Scarsdale General—the full tour would take several hours, so she did the Greg House version: Cafeteria, vending machine, and the preferred lounge of the hotter nurses—and introduced him to his department head, Dr. Gary Tolliver.

"I've heard a lot about you," Tolliver said, extending his hand.

House shook it.

"All lies, I'm sure," he said, eyeing Cuddy nervously.

She smiled.

She realized that she was actively holding onto his arm. She let go.

"He's all yours, Gary," she said.

Tolliver gave a cheerful smile.

"Believe me, I'll put him right to work. As we like to say here in Infectious Disease: Our workload spreads like a virus."

Tolliver laughed loudly at his own joke. House didn't laugh back, but then again, he also didn't tell Tolliver what a moron he was, so that was progress of sorts.

Tolliver showed House to his new office, which was about half the size of the one he had at Princeton Plainsboro. There was a desk, a computer, a dusty rubber tree. For now, it had no plaque on the door. Cuddy reminded herself to call maintenance about that.

"Have fun," she said.

Cuddy started heading down the hall, but turned back, just one last time, to check on him.

Tolliver was introducing House to other members of the Infectious Disease team—two 50ish women and a young Chinese guy. They all seemed to be getting along famously.

_He's going to be okay, Lisa_, she thought.

And she forced herself to go back to her office.

#####

At lunchtime, House made his way to the cafeteria, feeling out of sorts. There were all these stations set up: A salad station, a sandwich station, a dessert bar. He had no one to mooch off and didn't think his "extended payment plan"—i.e. a vague and unfulfilled promise that he would eventually pay—would fly here.

He went to the sandwich station, ordered a turkey club and a Coke, and looked for an empty table.

He wished Cuddy was here, but he didn't want to seem needy. Besides, she probably had some sort of executive dining room she frequented.

"Hey, it's you!" a female voice said.

He looked down. It was Heather Cavanaugh, Cuddy's executive assistant.

She was young and pretty—closer to 25 than 30, with wavy reddish-blonde hair and a rather spectacular set of cans.

"Hey," he said.

"What are you doing here?" she said.

"I, uh, work here," he said.

"You do? In what department?"

"Infectiology," he said.

"As a. . .doctor?" she said.

"I'm pretty sure that's what the MD after my name stands for," House said. "Unless they've been lying to me all these years."

"You wanna join me?" she said, gesturing to the empty chair across from her.

He sat down.

Then he chuckled. "So what exactly did you think I did for a living?"

"I dunno," she said. "I thought you owned a bar or played in a band or something."

"I haven't played in a band since college. And as for owning a bar, not since that speakeasy I ran in junior high school."

She laughed.

"You're funny," she said, looking him up and down. "So what instrument do you play?"

"Piano. . . guitar. . .harmonica. . . drums. . ."

"You're much cooler than the other doctors at this hospital," she said, dryly.

"I've met some of the other doctors at this hospital—that's not exactly high praise."

Just at that moment, Cuddy entered the cafeteria, specifically to look for House (Dr. Tolliver told her she had just missed him).

She figured he'd be sitting in a corner by himself, or possibly standing helplessly in the center of the room. Instead, she spotted House and her pretty assistant.

Heather was resting her chin on her hand and was staring at House like he was the most fascinating, hilarious, sexy creature she'd ever laid eyes on.

Almost immediately, Cuddy felt an unexpected pang of possessiveness.

She started to approach them, but stopped herself.

There was something so familiar in Heather's gaze: Lust combined with admiration, even a bit of awe.

At first, she thought Heather's gaze reminded her of Cameron.

But then she realized it reminded her of herself.

#####

Several hours later, House swung by Cuddy's office.

"Here to visit your new girlfriend?" Cuddy said, not able to help herself.

"Wha?" House said.

"Never mind. How's your day been so far?"

"Not bad," he shrugged. "A case of shingles and a ruled out case of measles. Nothing sexy, like small pox."

"It was always go big or go home at PPTH," she said with a smile.

"I did look good in a biohazard suit, though, didn't I?" he said.

She laughed.

"So what's up?"

House reached into his pants pocket.

"I brought you this," he said, handing her a banana.

"A banana?" she said, taking it.

"I was going to bring you an apple—teacher's pet kinda thing. But they ran out in the cafeteria. Also, apples? Much less phallic."

"I'll treasure it for. . .hours," she said, laughing. "As it happens, I have something for you."

She reached into her desk and handed him a bag.

He pulled out its contents: An oversized tennis ball, exactly like the one he had at PPTH.

He looked so happy, she actually thought he might cry.

"Cuddy, where did you get this?"

"eBay," she said. "I've always suspected that your power comes from your balls."

"That's what she said!" House replied—because it was the thing to say.

"So a banana and a giant ball, what _would_ Dr. Freud say?" Cuddy chuckled.

"He'd say the banana was the penis and the ball was, well, the balls. You must've missed that day in psych class."

"Apparently so," she said.

And they beamed at each other.

After House left her office, Dr. Tolliver came by.

"How's it going with Dr. House?" Cuddy asked.

"That's why I'm here," Tolliver said.

Cuddy held her breath.

"He solved three vexing cases and possibly managed to avert an Epstein Barr outbreak," Tolliver said. "Is he that good, or did he just get lucky?"

Cuddy exhaled a bit.

"He's that good," she said.

######

House was on his best behavior for two solid weeks, earning nothing but praise from Tolliver and the rest of his colleagues.

Until the day Dr. Tony Vitale, a surgeon, came storming into her office.

"That new doctor you hired is a mad man!" he screamed.

Uh oh.

"Tony, calm down. Tell me what happened."

"He burst into my OR, unscrubbed, mind you, to tell me to stop a left pericardial pleural fenestration that I had already prepped for."

"Why?"

"Because he said it wasn't gangrene. He was pretty sure it was bronchiectasis."

"Was he right?"

"Isn't that besides the point?" Tony said.

"Actually, it seems pretty relevant."

"They're running some tests now," Tony huffed. "But his behavior was highly reckless, highly unprofessional, and certainly warrants some kind of official censure! I don't even know how he got his hands on the scan. It wasn't even his case!"

Cuddy sighed. Of course, Vitale was right.

"I'll deal with it, okay? But let me know what the results of those tests are, will you?"

Dr. Vitale grumbled something and stormed out.

####

About an hour later, Heather looked up and saw her new favorite lunch companion, sexy Dr. House, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

"Principal wants to see me," he explained. "I think I'm in big trouble."

"Oh, are _you_ what all that yelling has been about?" Heather said.

"It would appear so."

"Yikes. Good luck," she said.

"I'm going in," he said, inhaling.

Heather tried to listen through the door.

She heard words like, "My reputation is on the line," "I took a chance on you" and "complete and utter humiliation."  
She didn't hear House say anything. Just more of Dr. Cuddy yelling and yelling and yelling some more.

Finally, House emerged from the office, looking completely shaken

"Wow, House," Heather said, sympathetically. "Are you okay?"

But he walked past her desk and didn't say a word.

#####

When Cuddy got home that night, House was already in his room. (Rachel was spending the night at Abigail's).

She knocked on the door.

"Can I come in?" she asked.

"It's your house," he said.

She was surprised to see his duffel bag on the bed—but not for a secret stash of pills this time. He was packing.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Packing my shit," he said.

"Why?"

"Because. . . I fucked up," he said.

"What?" she said.

"I know you want me to move out," he said. "And I understand completely."

She stared at him incredulously.

"Jesus, House, stop this!" she said, her voice a bit louder than intended. "Where on earth is this coming from?"

"I told you I'd keep my behavior in check and it lasted—what?—all of two weeks?" he hissed. "I'm obviously an enormous liability to you."

Cuddy tried to remain calm herself.

"I know what happened," she said. "Dr. Tolliver told me he had some doubts about the case and showed you the scan."

He didn't look at her, kept shoving stuff into his duffel bag.

"And you were right, by the way," she continued. "Instead of removing a portion of this guy's lung, we're now recommending inhaled steroids. Which _still_ doesn't excuse what you did!"

"Exactly," he said, continuing to not looking at her.

"House, stop it for a second. Sit with me."

She sat down and patted on the bed, gesturing for him to sit beside her.

He sighed loudly, but obediently sat.

"Talk to me."

"There's nothing to say," he said.

"You really think I want you to move out?"

"You seemed pretty angry earlier," he said.

"I was angry. I _am_ angry. That doesn't mean I want you to move out."

"But the last time I screwed up like this. . . " his voice drifted off.

She suddenly understood what he was referring to: Her illness, his vicodin slip, the breakup.

"What have I done to you?" she asked, taking his hand.

He looked at the floor.

"House. . .I'm sorry. This is my fault. I didn't mean for you to feel like you were on such unstable ground here."

"Aren't I?" he said.

"No," she said. "No. House, look at me."

He looked at her, wide-eyed.

"I don't want you to go anywhere," she said. "Do you understand? I want to be with you."

He stayed perfectly still, like he was trying to process what she was saying.

"You do?"

"Yes," she said, caressing his face. "I love you."

"You do?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes."

Then, as if compelled by a force he couldn't quite control, he grabbed her and kissed her. There was something almost feral about the intensity of his desire as his mouth began to migrate to her neck and chest and he tore wildly at her shirt, popping several buttons.

"Wait!" Cuddy said.

He stopped, stunned. Her shirt was already half-off and they were both slightly out of breath.

"Let's go to my room," she said.  
#####

Two days later, Heather Cavanaugh got a letter at work marked PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL.

She opened it up. It was a series of newspaper clippings and a handwritten note that said, "Thought these might be of some interest."

The envelope was unmarked and the note was unsigned.

She looked at the first clipping.

"Berserk Doc Drives Car Into Ex's Dining Room," it read.

"Lovelorn Doc Charged With Reckless Endangerment" read another.

"The Doctor is In the House—Literally!" read the third.

Then she began to look more closely at the clippings. Her mouth dropped open.

"Holy shit," she said.


	12. Sabotage

**Author's note: I always feel extra guilty when I steal a line directly from the show, but I couldn't resist that first line, from one of my favorite eps ever. (I won't even insult you guys by asking if you can name it.) Hope you enjoy. Also, prepare for the end (of this fic, just of THIS fic!), because I have either one or two more chapters to go, depending on how things shake out.**

"House, you're creeping me out."

It was their second consecutive night sleeping in Cuddy's bed (at this point, Cuddy knew—and House hoped—that it was just a matter of time before he became a permanent fixture) and she could actually feel his eyes burning a hole into her back.

"I thought you were asleep," he whispered.

"I can't sleep with you staring at my back like that," she whispered back.

"Sorry, some people count sheep. I count the strands of your hair. I was up to 121,496. . .or was it 121,497? Crap!"

She turned to look at him, smiled. Even at 2 in the morning, he could always make her laugh.

"Go to sleep, House," she said.

"But I'm not sleepy," he whined.

"How can you not be sleepy after what we just did?"

"A starved man gets one meal, does that mean he's no longer hungry?"

"House, I sneaked into your room every night last week. I'd hardly say you're starving."

He put his arms around her, pulled her close, breathed her in.

"Who said anything about sex?" he said.

#####

The next day at work Heather was acting peculiarly—avoiding eye contact with Cuddy, being a bit curt and snippy. Cuddy didn't think much of it. She figured Heather was on her period, or maybe had just had a fight with her boyfriend du jour.

That is, until House showed up in her office.

"Do I look okay to you?" he said, holding out his arms for inspection. "Do I have any toilet paper stuck to my shoe? A booger in my nose? A 'kick me' sign on my back?"

She laughed.

"No, House, you look like your normal not-quite-ready-for-prime-time self," she said.

"Then why is everyone at this hospital giving me the stinkeye and whispering behind my back? And don't tell me I'm paranoid. Because I've always been paranoid, and this feels distinctly different."

At first she was going to tell him he was imagining things, but then she thought about Heather's unusual behavior all day.

"Now that you mention it, Heather has been acting weird," she said.

"Weird? Weird how?" House said.

"She's been short with me."

"Huh."

They exchanged a glance.

Cuddy got on her phone.

"Heather, could you come in here for a sec?"

Heather came skulking in. Saw House and immediately turned red.

"Is there anything you want to tell Dr. House and me?" Cuddy said.

"No, why?" she said guiltily.

"Because you—and everyone else at this hospital apparently—have been acting strangely," Cuddy said.

"I. . .I. . ." she stammered, looking at the floor.

"Spit it out," House said.

"I got a letter yesterday," she admitted.

"What kind of letter?" Cuddy said cautiously.

"It had newspaper clippings."

House and Cuddy looked at each other again.

"Go get it," Cuddy said.

Heather sheepishly obeyed—and came back to the office brandishing the letter.

Cuddy read it, blanched—then showed House.

"Motherfucker," House said.

Cuddy inspected the handwriting on the note: It was all caps, almost impossible to trace.

"Do you have any idea who might've sent this?" she said to House.

"I can't think of anyone," said House. "And by that I mean, it would be virtually impossible to narrow all my enemies down to one single suspect."

"Shit," said Cuddy. "Do you think it could've been Vitale? He was pretty pissed about that surgery you busted in on."

"He is certainly one of the ten thousand suspects," House said.

Cuddy looked at Heather.

"Heather, who did you share this with?"

"No one," Heather said, gulping.

"You must've shared it with someone. The whole hospital seems to know."

"I swear Dr. Cuddy, I didn't tell anyone!" Heather said, practically in tears.

Cuddy looked at House.

"She says she didn't tell anyone."

"She's lying," House said, staring at Heather, in a penetrating sort of way. "Heather, who's the one person you told—you know, that person you made pinkie-swear to absolute secrecy?"

There was a long silence.

"I told Debbie!" she finally moaned. "But she said she wouldn't tell a soul. She promised."

"Debbie in accounting?" Cuddy said, horrified.

Heather nodded.

"And she told one friend, also sworn to secrecy, who told one friend and so on and so on and so on. . ." House said. "In other words, we're fucked."

Cuddy clenched her jaw.

"Heather, why didn't you come to me with this?"

"I don't know," Heather said meekly. "I was freaked out. I didn't know what to do."

"Yeah, blabbing it to Debbie was a genius plan," House said.

"Am I in trouble?"

"No," Cuddy said. "I mean, I wish you had come to me. But it's not your fault someone's trying to sabotage me."

"I'm sorry Dr. Cuddy," she said, genuinely remorseful.

Then she looked at House.

"So it's true?"

"No," House said. "All three of those newspapers printed the exact same typo on the exact same day."

"I just. . .never pegged you as a violent guy," Heather said.

"He's not!" Cuddy said, defensively.

"It was an. . .isolated incident," House said, echoing the phrase his lawyers had used.

"So you went to jail?"

"That's what criminals do," House said.

"And you got to keep your medical license?"

"At least the one I printed out at Kinko's," House said.

"And what about the two of you. . .?"

"None of your business," they said in unison.

######

That night, after Rachel went to bed, House wandered into Cuddy's home office.

She was sitting at her desk, deep in thought, typing something on her laptop.

He stood there, frozen, not quite sure what to say.

"Are you okay?" he asked finally.

"I've been better," she replied.

"If you want me to resign, I will," House said. "No questions asked."

"Of course I don't want you resign," Cuddy said, irritated, putting her head in her hands. "I hired you. Why would I fire you?"

House approached her. His hands hovered over her shoulders for a second, uncertain about lowering them. Finally he took a chance. Much to his relief, she relaxed into his touch.

"So what's going to happen?" he asked.

"I honestly don't know."

"Maybe it'll all blow over," he said, unconvincingly.

"Oh yes, of course. The fact that the new director of medicine is in a relationship with her ex-con ex-boyfriend who she just _happened_ to have recently hired at the hospital is going to barely cause a blip."

House was trying to concentrate on what she had just said but all he heard was: _in a relationship_.

Then he caught a glimpse at what was on her computer screen.

"What the hell are you writing?" he asked.

"Nothing," Cuddy said.

"It doesn't look like nothing. It looks like a letter to Roger T. Whitmore, the president of the Scarsdale General board."

"I figured I'd come clean before he found out," Cuddy said.

"Bad plan," House said.

"Why? If he hears through the grapevine, it'll look bad for me. Better to preemptively strike."

"Let's look at the rules of probability, Cuddy. In one scenario, Whitmore _might_ find out. In the other scenario, he _definitely _finds out. I don't know about you, but it seems to me that. . ."

"House," she interrupted, shaking away from his massage. "This is my choice and I'm doing it. Don't argue with me."

Her voice was surprisingly testy. He backed up, hurt.

She turned to him.

"Look, I'm not mad at you. This isn't your fault."

"Technically, it is. . ." House said.

"No, it isn't. Some asshole is trying to hurt us. And I'm taking control of the situation."

_Us_.

"But I can't think with you here," she continued. "I need my space."

"Where am I supposed to go?" House said.

"I don't know. Your room?"

He felt a pit form in the bottom of his stomach. He didn't want it to be his room anymore. He wanted it to be the guest room. For _guests_.

Sensing that she'd said the wrong thing, Cuddy amended her statement.

"Or go grab a drink at PJs, okay? I know how much you love sulking at a bar."

He shrugged.

She got up from the computer, kissed him lightly on the lips.

"I'm really not mad, okay? I just need to be alone."

"Okay," he said sadly.

And left.

######

At PJs, he ordered a scotch and obsessed over the day's events.

He had a tiny notion of who was responsible for sending those newspaper clippings, but the thought was almost too disturbing to truly consider.

Equally disturbing? Cuddy's behavior tonight in her office.

When they were dating, particularly toward the end of their relationship, she seemed in a near-constant state of agitation with him, even for the most petty of offenses.

But since Wilson's death, she'd been a lot more tender, doting, almost as if she was grateful for his presence. (He sure as hell was grateful for hers.) Tonight's brusque attitude reminded him a lot of those uncertain days back in Princeton. He wondered if this was a sign that she was regretting her decision to let him into her bed.

He sighed, stared glumly into his scotch glass, took a swig.

"Excuse me," a female voice said. "Are you Dr. Gregory House?"

House looked up. Standing next to him was a tall, leggy woman with long dark hair in a low-cut dress—a real stunner.

"Depends. Are you serving me with a subpoena?" he cracked.

"I'm a medical student at SUNY Scarsdale," she said. "And you're. . .famous!"

"I think infamous is the word you're looking for," he said.

"No! We're. . .studying you! My professor has shared some of your cases with us—your diagnostic methods are groundbreaking."

"Sometimes you gotta break a little ground to make a diagnosis," he said.

She smiled, gestured to the chair next to him.

"May I?" she said.

He shrugged, in a "suit yourself" sort of way.

"My name's Sasha," she said.

"House," he replied. "But I guess you knew that already."

"My classmates are going to freak out when they find out I'm talking to you," she said. "You're like a legend to us."

"I'm assuming that any biographical details about me in your text books stopped before 2011," he said.

She gave him a quizzical look, but didn't respond.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he said finally.

He was a little drunk himself and this girl was providing a nice distraction.

"Thanks," she said. "But I'm the one who should be buying you a drink. Scotch?"

"Yup," House said.

She ordered a scotch for him and a Cosmo for herself.

"The photos I've seen of you don't do you justice," she said flirtatiously, taking a sip of her drink.

"Really?" he said, playing along. "How so?"

"You're much cuter," she said.

"I haven't been cute since I was 6 years old," House said. "And even then I had a 5 o'clock shadow and a surly attitude."

"Cute, sexy, whatever you want to call it," she said, biting seductively on a cocktail straw.

Then she leaned forward.

"Listen, I know this is bold, but I live a few blocks from here. I thought maybe you'd like to come back to my place? You could help me sort out my homework. . . and other things."

"Sounds intriguing," House said.

"I promise to make it worth your while," she said, placing her hand on his.

House looked down at her hand, raised his eyebrows, and leaned in extremely close.

"Give Arlene a message for me, will you?" he whispered in her ear. "Tell her that I'm in love with her daughter and I would never, EVER cheat on her. And also, she overestimates how susceptible I am to flattery."

Sasha, who had been smiling, expecting a kiss, snapped back, like she had just touched something hot.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said. "Who's Arlene?"

"Nice try," House said.

"This was obviously a mistake," she said, getting up from the barstool. "I'm leaving."

House grabbed her arm, with a bit of force.

"How'd she know I was at this bar?" he demanded.

Sasha looked down at his hand gripping her wrist. Her skin was turning white.

"She hired a private detective to follow you," she admitted.

House softened his grip, not quite letting go.

"A private detective?" he said, gulping. "Do you happen to know his name?"

"Ernie Jaworski. Why?"

House sighed.

"No reason," he said. "So what was the plan? Take me back to your place and what. . .fuck me?"

"I'm not a hooker," she said huffily. "I'm an actress. I was going to get you in a compromising position and Ernie was going to photograph it."

"Listen honey, I'm not one to give out unsolicited advice—okay, that was a lie—but if your acting gigs involve seducing strange men and taking them back to your apartment, you're a lot closer to a hooker than an actress."

Sasha—whose real name was Tammy—looked at him, aghast.

"You're a real jerk, you know that?" she said.

"Don't forget to pass on my message to Arlene," House said. "And one more thing: Tell her this means war."

#####

When he got home that night, the house was dark and quiet and he stood between Cuddy's room and the guest room, not knowing which door to enter.

He still felt that access to Cuddy's room was by invitation only. He grudgingly went into the guest room.

When he turned on the light, there was a handwritten note on the bed.

"My room, NOW, you idiot," it read.

House grinned and did his best version of running down the hall.

Cuddy was in bed with the light on, reading.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she said, looking truly happy to see him. "I'm sorry about before. I was in a bad mood. I didn't mean to take it out on you."

"You didn't," he said, kicking off his shoes and pants and climbing into bed with her. "You were fine."

"Good," she said, kissing him. "I wrote the letter but I didn't send it. I want you to read it first."

"Okay," he said.

She started to kiss him again, this time with a little more heat.

He kissed back for a second, then pulled away.

"Cuddy," he said softly. "Before we go any further we need to talk . . . about your mother."


	13. United

There are few phrases in the English language more mood-killing than, "We need to talk about your mother."

Cuddy sat up in bed, turned back on the light.

"What about her?" she said.

House took a deep breath, tried to measure his words.

"I'm pretty sure she was the one who sent those newspaper clippings to Heather," he finally said.

"_What?_" Cuddy said, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.

"That's insane."

"I never said it wasn't insane."

Cuddy folded her arms.

"How'd you even come up with this far-fetched theory?"

"I guess it started when she. . . paid me a visit here in Scarsdale."

Cuddy gave him a "not funny" look. Then she saw that he was dead serious.

"House, start from the beginning. And spare no details," she said.

He sighed.

"About three weeks ago she called me and asked to meet for a drink," House said. "She was staying at the Scarsdale Inn."

"And you were planning on telling me this _when_?" she said.

"Frankly, never. . .because I never thought it would get this far."

"So what, pray tell, did you two talk about?"

"Oh, you know. Macramé. The Mets starting lineup. Nuclear proliferation in the Middle East. Also, the fact that I'm worthless scum who needs to stay out of your life. . ."

"House, why didn't you tell me any of this?"

"She asked me not to. Said it would drive a wedge between you and her. Told me I'd already caused enough trouble."

Cuddy shook her head.

"I can't believe her. I can't believe _you_ would keep this from me!"

House looked down at the bed.

"Sorry," he said.

"Go on," Cuddy said. "What else?"

"She. . .offered to pay me off. Even took out her checkbook. Which actually would've been impressive if it wasn't so incredibly insulting."

Cuddy stared at him in disbelief.

"Then what?"

"I said, that's a truly lovely bribe you're offering me, Arlene, but thanks all the same and she said something to the effect of"—here he put on his best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice—"_I'll be back_."

"That's not exactly proof that she's behind this," Cuddy said, defensively.

"There's more," House said. "When the clippings came, I had a hunch it might be Mommy Dearest, but I shook it off. Then tonight, I was sitting at PJs and this little nymphet started hitting on me."

"_What?_"

"Oh yeah. . . claimed to be my number one fan, said I'm so much cuter in person, boobs in my face, the whole bit. . ."

Cuddy gave him a skeptical look.

"This happens more often then you might think, Cuddy," he said.

She snorted.

House frowned and continued:

"Anyway, she invites me back to her place and I act like I'm into it and just when she seems to be leaning in for a kiss—whamo!—I ask her how much Arlene is paying her. It was all very dramatic."

"So there was no kiss," Cuddy said, suspiciously.

"Why would I kiss a Hyundai when I've got a Ferrari at home?" he said.

Cuddy looked at him.

"They're cars," he said.

"I know what they are. . . go on."

"So at first she denied it. But due to my finely honed interrogation skills, eventually she sang like a canary . . .I've always wanted to say that, by the way."

He glanced at Cuddy. She didn't look amused.

"So yeah, bottom line. Your mom hired her. And a private investigator—_named Ernie_—who is probably watching us as we speak. Should we go to the window and wave hi to Ernie?"

"Fuck me," Cuddy said, slumping back onto the headboard.

"Absolutely!" he cracked. "And here I thought this would be a mood killer."

"Seriously, _fuck_," Cuddy said. "She really did send those clippings."

"She's not a woman to be trifled with," House said. "Like mother like daughter."

"But why would she try to hurt me like that?"

"She's not trying to hurt you," he said gently. "She's trying to protect you. . . from me."

"By going behind my back, sending hookers to hit on you—"

"Technically, she was an actress. . ."

"And trying to get me fired from work?"

"I'm sure she thinks that I'm the only one in danger of getting the ax. . ."

Cuddy suddenly got a far off look in her eyes.

"And this explains Jeff Greenstein," she said.

"Jeff who?" House said, already getting tense.

"Jeff Greenstein, my high school boyfriend, the love of my life. . . when I was 16. He just _happened_ to be visiting a sick relative at the hospital. Now I'm sure mom sent him."

Now it was House's turn to be upset.

"So this. . . Jeff Greenstein. . .he's fat and bald and married with three kids, right?"

"Fit with a full head of hair and divorced with two kids," Cuddy corrected.

"And why didn't you tell me _this_?"

"Because there's nothing to tell. I don't have feelings for Jeff Greenstein."

"But you did, when you were in high school."

Cuddy smiled dreamily.

"I thought we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. "

She looked at House. He had turned a bit white.

"That was a girl's love," she said reassuringly. "The love I feel for you is a woman's love. It's an entirely different thing."

"And thank God for that," he said.

There was a small silence.

"So what are we going to do about my crazy mother?" Cuddy said.

"I don't know. I guess we'll figure out something."

"Yeah. . ."

She put her head on his shoulder and he put his arm around her.

"Nothing can ever got smoothly for us, can it?" she said.

"We wouldn't know how to handle that," he joked, kissing the top of her head.

"No, I suppose we wouldn't."

######

The next day at work, House and Cuddy met in the cafeteria to discuss her letter to the president of the board and strategize over what House was calling Operation Get Arlene the Fuck Out of Our Lives.

The cafeteria was positively abuzz with their presence. It was strange enough seeing Dr. Cuddy in the cafeteria (she usually ate at her desk, or in the executive dining room). But to see her out in the open with the notorious Dr. House—by now, the story of their relationship in Princeton, the car accident, and his jail time had circulated like wildfire—was positively scandalous.

All eyes may have been on them, but House and Cuddy only had eyes for each other. They were in a bubble of sorts, that cone they got into, where the rest of the world receded into some sort of blurry background and they were both in vivid 3D.

House was looking over Cuddy's letter to Whitmore and scratching out any of the parts where she apologized.

"You should never apologize," he said. "Instead, you should stress that you always have the hospital's best interests in mind . . . Which has the added bonus of being true."

She nodded, and the two of them leaned over his work.

Just at that moment, Heather Cavanaugh made her way into the cafeteria. She had been thinking a lot about Dr. House over the past 24 hours and decided that his jail time, his newly discovered dangerous streak, only made him sexier. She was just young enough to believe that his stupidity was some kind of grand romantic gesture.

She was having this thought when she saw Dr. House and Dr. Cuddy in the corner of the cafeteria.

Their heads were touching and they were huddled over a document.

House said something and Cuddy laughed lightly and hit him on the arm and then he looked at her, adoringly. There was something so intimate in their body language, she almost felt she should look away.

"Just roommates my ass," she said to herself.

#####

Two nights later, Cuddy steeled herself and dialed her mother's number.

"Mom!" she wailed.

"Lisa, what's wrong?" Arlene said.

"House. . . left me!"

"He what?"

"He left me. He said he couldn't deal with the scandal at work—and he found out about my encounter with Jeff Greenstein."

"You ran into Jeff Greenstein?" Arlene said, innocently. "I didn't know he was in town."

"Yes, he was visiting his sick aunt at my hospital. Crazy coincidence, huh? I assured House that he meant nothing to me but he flew into a jealous rage."

"Oh honey, I'm so sorry," Arlene said, grandly sympathetic.

"It's worse," Cuddy sniffed. "He. . .stole from me!"

"_What?_"

"He stole $200 out of my purse and a lot of my precious jewelry is missing."

"Addicts," Arlene muttered derisively, under her breath.

"Mom, I'm freaking out. I'm so hurt and angry. . . I don't know what to do. I need you!"

"Of course, honey. I'll drive out to Scarsdale first thing tomorrow morning"

This news only made Cuddy cry harder.

"I need you _now_," she moaned. "I'm having a panic attack. That fucking bastard! How could he do this to me?"

"Okay! Okay! I'm leaving right now. Just try to calm down."

"And mom? Bring Julia, okay? I really need you both."

"Of course sweetie. I'll call her."

"Thanks, mom."

And she hung up.

House, who had been sitting in a chair next to the phone, watching the whole thing, began to slowly applaud.

"A truly award-worthy performance," he said.

She gave a little curtsy.

"But did you have to call me a fucking bastard?"

"I was in the moment," she said.

#####

Three hours later, Arlene and Julia arrived at the front door, their faces moist with fake compassion. (Julia had to juggle some plans to drop everything and drive to Scarsdale, but she wasn't going to miss this for the world.)

They expected to see Cuddy a complete mess, with mascara running down her face and her hair askew, so they were a little surprised by how composed she looked when she answered the door.

They stepped inside.

House was sitting in an easy chair, his legs folded.

"Welcome, She-Cuddys," he said.

"What the hell is he doing here?" Julia growled.

"He never left," Cuddy said.

"So this is a set up," said Arlene, getting it.

"Call it a reverse intervention," Cuddy said.

"And what's keeping us from turning around right now and leaving?" Julia said.

"Nothing," said Cuddy. "But you just drove 3 hours because you supposedly care about me. The least you can do is hear what I—what _we_—have to say."

"And," said House, gamely pouring 4 glasses of scotch. "There's booze."

Julia and Arlene exchanged a look and grudgingly accepted the glasses. They all sat down.

"Look mom, look Julia—I love you both," Cuddy said. "And I understand that everything you've done you've done because you love me too, but you've got to stop meddling in my life."

"We think your life is spiraling out of control, sis, and we just want to get it back on course," said Julia.

"I know you feel that way. I know you think that I'm not thinking clearly, that I'm—I don't know—some sort of victim of mind control, but it's not like that. It's just this simple: I love him."

"You _think_ you love him," Arlene said.

"Did you _think _you loved dad?" Cuddy countered.

"No, I did love him. But there's a difference. He wasn't an addict and he didn't drive a car into my house."

"But what if he had?" Cuddy said. "Would you have stopped loving him?"

Arlene thought about it for a second.

"I don't think I would tolerate violence, not even from your father."

"House isn't violent," Cuddy said.

"That's empirically not true," Julia said.

"So that's it?" Cuddy said. "One incident? One violent incident in 25 years of love and friendship and I'm supposed to turn on him?"

"You're supposed to make rational decisions—for yourself and for your child," Julia said.

"Don't bring Rachel into this. Rachel adores him," Cuddy said.

"Rachel adores My Little Pony. . ."

"Actually, she thinks they're dumb," House said, under his breath.

"You're right, okay?" Cuddy said. "There's nothing rational about my love for House. It just is. It's like breathing. And if you're going to accept me, if you're going to love me—you have to accept him, too. It's as simple as that."

Arlene looked over at House.

"And what do you have to say for yourself?" she said.

"I love your daughter very much," he said, evenly.

"And love conquers all?" Arlene said, rolling her eyes.

"Something like that."

"And mom, you need to hear this," Cuddy said firmly. "We need you to stop sending skanks and ex boyfriends and private investigators our way and stop trying to sabotage our workplace with scandal and rumor."

A look of horror washed over Arlene's face.

"I did this," she said out loud, to nobody in particular. "I gave them a mutual enemy. I actually brought them closer."

"You used to know that, Arlene," House said, a reference to her attempt to sue them at PPTH. "You're slipping."

"I'm such a fool. . ."

"Mom, this is nothing you did," Cuddy said. "It's just the way it is. It's the way it's _always_ going to be."

"We don't have to sit here and listen to this," Julia said, getting up. "C'mon mom. Let's get out of here."

"No," Arlene said slowly. "They're right. We can't stand in their way. The more we fight them, the stronger they get."

"Thanks for fighting us, by the way," House said.

"So . . .?" Cuddy said, expectantly.

"So you win. We'll stop putting up roadblocks. We'll accept House as a part of your life."

"Mom!" Julia said, shocked.

"Zip it, Julia—and do as I say," Arlene said.

The formidable, worldly Julia was suddenly a 15-year-old girl who had just been sent to her room without supper.

"Fine," she muttered, practically stamping her feet.

"Thank you," Cuddy said, relieved.

"Thank you," House said.

"But that doesn't mean I'm not going to be watching your every move, House, like a hawk," Arlene said.

"I would expect nothing less, Arlene," House said.

And he raised his glass. "To a reluctant and truly awkward truce based on our mutual love for Lisa," he said.

They clinked glasses.

"By the way, we've made up the guest room for you," House said. "It's where . . . guests sleep."

######

An hour later, House and Cuddy climbed into bed together.

"You were amazing out there," House said, in awe.

"Thank you," said Cuddy. "You weren't so bad yourself."

"You know what's an enormous fucking turn on to me?"

"What?"

"You declaring your undying love."

She gave him a sexy smile.

"Oh yeah?"

"You have no idea."

"Well, don't get too cocky. At least a little of that was just for show."

"I'm not cocky," he said. "I'm humbled. I'm grateful."

He began to burrow under the covers until his face was between her legs. "I'm forever your faithful servant," he said, poking his head out from under the blanket. Then he went back under, pulled her panties to the side and began touching her lightly with the tip of his tongue, slowly and tantalizingly. He tasted her again, a little deeper this time.

She moaned a bit.

"That feels gooooood," she said.

He pulled her panties off completely.

"Girl, you ain't felt nothing yet," he said.

######

A week later, Cuddy was scheduled to go in front of the board to discuss her letter and House was babysitting Rachel, a first since he'd moved into the house.

He had wanted to come with Cuddy to the board meeting but she said it wasn't appropriate.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked.

"I have no idea," she said honestly.

"Are they going to fire you?"

"I don't know."

"Are they going to fire me?"

"It's distinctly possible," she said.

He sighed.

"Well, good luck," he said. "Be strong. Be Head Bitch in Charge Cuddy, not Guilty Cuddy Who Thinks She May Have Screwed Up, okay?"

Cuddy nodded. House put his hands on her shoulders, kissed her.

Cuddy then gestured to Rachel, who was at the computer playing some sort of game with insipidly cheerful music and a chirpy voice that either intoned "Tooooo bad! or "Yay! You're a Winner!".

"You got things covered here?" she asked.

"All good," he said. "As soon as I destroy the computer."

She smiled.

He gave her a little fist of solidarity and she left.

Later, Rachel wanted to play duck duck goose.

"We can't play duck duck goose, because there's only two of us," he said.

"My dollies can be the ducks and you can be the goose!" she said.

"First, that's dumb. And second, I can't always be the goose because of my bum leg."

Rachel looked at his leg. They didn't talk about it much.

"Does it hurt?" she said.

"Yeah," he said.

And she walked over and did what her mother had done to her, countless times—she kissed his pants leg over the boo-boo.

House looked at the floor, swallowed hard. _Jesus, House, get a hold of yourself._

He looked back up, gave her a weak smile.

"Hey kiddo, wanna play Intergalactic Tea Time? I know a really cool thing we can do with Mentos and Diet Coke."

######

Three hours later, Rachel was asleep—okay, asleep in her Halloween Princess Leia costume, but House was still feeling pretty good about himself—and he heard Cuddy's key in the door.

He had been sitting at the kitchen table, drinking scotch, literally drumming his fingers.

He popped up quickly.

"So?" he said to her.

She looked a little dazed.

"So, I still have a job," she said.

"Good. Let's get to the me part," he said.

She nodded, incredulously.

"_You_ still have a job."

"I haven't been demoted, have I? I'm not in maintenance and plumbing now, am I?"

"No, you're still in the Infectious Disease department—as a doctor."

He exhaled.

"Tell me everything."

They sat down at the kitchen table together and he poured her a drink.

"I did everything you said," she said. "I was firm, resolute, I never backed down."

"Good girl," he said.

"They said they thought I was doing a great job running the hospital and didn't want this one incident to cloud an otherwise spotless record."

"Smart board."

"But they still wanted to fire you," she said.

"Not so smart after all."

"Until three allies stepped forward."

"Allies?"

"Tolliver for one. He came in person. Said it was an honor and a privilege to work with you and if there was any justice in this world, _he'd_ be reporting to you."

"I knew I liked that guy," House said.

"And. . . believe it or not, Foreman. Whitmore called him personally, and Foreman completely vouched for you. He acknowledged that your methods were unconventional but said your results spoke for themselves."

"You said three," House said, furrowing his brow.

"And. . .Wilson."

House laughed.

"Was there heavy drinking at this meeting? Or perhaps hallucinogenic drugs?"

"No…he'd written a letter before he died. It was in your PPTH file. I guess he figured you might do something stupid like quit."

"Best decision I ever made," House said, looking at her.

"Wilson had a great reputation in the medical community, as you well know," Cuddy said. "So his word counted for a lot. He said that not only were you a brilliant doctor but a loyal friend and—despite your protests to the contrary—you really cared about your patients a lot."

"Blasphemy!" House said.

"It's true, House," Cuddy said.

"Wilson was such a sentimental sap," he said. Then he added softly, "Did you happen to make a copy of the letter?"

"I have the original," she said, handing it to him.

He fold it gingerly and put it in his pocket, trying to act like it didn't mean the world to him.

"I might want to read it later. . . for a few laughs."

For a second, he was lost in thought.

Then he held up his scotch glass.

"To Wilson," he said.

"To Wilson," said Cuddy.


End file.
